


to set the empty ablaze

by Ghostigos



Series: se corri con lupi [2]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood and Gore, Dysphoria, F/F, Found Family, Gang Violence, Gen, Gun Violence, Mafia AU, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-11-26 08:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: It still hurts to look at, and carries with it a feeling of tripping over steps. Moomin's mother insisted that they were fine living in the very back of the household and the only thing they'd miss would be the fresh air from the windows — but it's like they've burrowed into a homemade prison for the sake of safety and it troubles you. You remember promising, and then pleading, that your doors are always open, and they looked at you a bit sad before shaking their heads, because they never wished to leave home again.You didn't believe the rock that pummeled through their window was anything more than a one-time delinquent, but they seemed to think otherwise. You couldn't rid them of their frights so you think, maybe, this is connected to Moomin leaving.As promised, you didn't say that you've heard from him after he drove out of town with that...miscreant. But it's getting hard to hold your tongue about it.Alt: In which, back home, Snorkmaiden takes the rising turbulences of the town into her own hands.





	1. my hands a mess of numb violet, for good

**Author's Note:**

> (_i felt the city choke_ — in light, how small we are, and how large our shadows become)
> 
> surprise bitches
> 
> this fic is about as long as the previous installation (which you should obviously read first to know wtf is happening) but will be broken up accordingly, just so there are more adequate stopping places for readers. same will go for the next story bc i'm a moron that just remembered she can pace things via Chapters By Beats, sigh
> 
> also, this fic will touch on Gang Violence as per usual with this AU, but it focuses on more interpersonal/internalized conflict that might be a bit more touchy with some folk (mostly body/gender dysphoria, accidental deadnaming, internalized transmisogyny), so keep an eye out if any of that makes you uncomfy.

"_Snorkmaiden!_" Snork's harsh yell shoves you out of whatever thoughts you're toying with; he smacks the desk you're leaning on for emphasis and you jerk up with a start — looks like you've been drifting off with your hand cradling your cheek, right at the front desk for any customers to see.

"I need you to be more alert right now," Snork huffs; he stands before you with crossed arms and a narrowed gaze behind his glasses. You just wait for him to continue rambling — which he does: "There's a lot of new faces coming about and the last thing I need to have are complaints about my only other employee sleeping on her shift!"

A yawn rips from your mouth before you can stop it and you catch it in your palm, lazily.

"I know you haven't been sleeping," he says, and it's surprisingly more gentle than accusatory, "You miss Moomin, I know that and I understand. And I also know he hasn't called in a while—"

"But."

"But all this worrying has started to affect your work flow and I won't stand for it!" he continues and the exasperation in his tone returns. "Mr. Hemulen has been waiting for several minutes now!"

You look over your brother's shoulder —true to word, you see a kind, familiar old man checking his watch as he sits in the waiting area (consisting of a crap coffee machine and maybe five chairs). There's a drip of guilt you feel for leaving him out to dry like that just because you've been zoning out so hard.

Dropping your head, your bangs tickling your nose, you murmur, "Sorry, Snork."

Your brother just sighs. "Just be more alert, is all I ask. And get Mr. Hemulen a discount for his wait, please?"

"Sure thing."

Snork adjusts his glasses back onto his nose's bridge —they slip down when he lectures you, which is to say they slip often — and he walks away with a snap in his steps. Timidly, Mr. Hemulen stands and approaches you, watching your brother depart and wringing his hands.

"Everything doing well, I hope?" he asks with a touch of concern.

Despite, hearing someone worry is appreciated and something you bask in momentarily. You give a worn smile and reply, "Yes, I'm sorry for the wait."

"No worries!" he insists. "It's just, ah, the usual. My engine won't stop making those noises."

"Oh dear, that again?" You tighten your ponytail to where it pinches the back of your neck, relishing in the spikes of alertness that come with the pain; it helps to keep you aware and charged, since Snork gets mad when you pull on your nose ring so frequently (and when you pull on it on the clock, where piercings are forbidden anyway). "Shall we go investigate it?"

"Surely. Thank you kindly, Fl—Snorkmaiden."

You tense your jaw, fake another smile. For dignity's sake you ignore the trip in his words —and also for the sake of not being able to afford handing out more discounts, should you chew your customer out to _be more considerate next time you hidebound bastard._

If someone were to ask your true sentiments (which no one is), you'd be happy to scream them, but until then you'll just remain pretty and helpful. So, you'll try to sleep more for Snork, and you can fix Mr. Hemulen's car, and after work you can delivery groceries to Moomin's parents like a nice polite young woman.

-

Moomin's always despised this town; although you _can_ vouch that the mountains do seem to fold into your home and squeeze you in, it's only on blue moons that you feel this way. Most of the time the air rolling through the hills is crisp, welcoming, and also private — few tourists pass through this town (for good reason) so your life feels more like a best-kept secret than any island or prison.

Shops and apartments are a stone's throw apart from the other; poverty and success intermingle so greatly around here, with some houses you pass showing light and warmth behind their doors and then the next are just barren. in your opinion, a cleanup of sorts _would_ be nice, but you know it's not the top of anybody's to-do list around here. So by extension it's not on yours either.

Moomin's house is on the very edge of town before the slope rests upon veers into rows of overgrown, gritty grass. Not to say his place is an hours' walk —at most ten minutes and by car maybe four, but you're not in the mood to worry about gas so longer route it is.

Minding your hands that are brimming with grocery bags, you duck around a few familiar streets and faces, giving proper hello's as you stroll past. There must be something in how you hold yourself that must give off an air of isolation, perhaps determination, because you don't receive any catcalls or such from the more...slimy folk hanging around, most of which being the newcomers.

(Which has the one part of you relieved, the other internally wailing in the absence of any approval. The latter has you cringing away from windowpanes as you pass them.)

Eventually you catch a glimpse of that old blue paint which peels off the house more and more with each passing year, and Mamma awaits its expiration so she can ponder a newer color. You find yourself walking a little fast to its awaiting doors; and then, as you get closer, the boarded-up windows has you almost stumbling over in cold shock as you remember, _Oh, right._

It still hurts to look at, and carries with it a feeling of tripping over steps. Moomin's mother insisted that they were fine living in the very back of the household and the only thing they'd miss would be the fresh air from the windows — but it's like they've burrowed into a homemade prison for the sake of safety and it troubles you. You remember promising, and then pleading, that your doors are always open, and they looked at you a bit sad before shaking their heads, because they never wished to leave home again.

You didn't believe the rock that pummeled through their window was anything more than a one-time delinquent, but they seemed to think otherwise. You couldn't rid them of their frights so you think, maybe, this is connected to Moomin leaving.

As promised, you didn't say that you've heard from him after he drove out of town with that...miscreant. But it's getting hard to hold your tongue about it.

You scurry across the street to Moomin's home, and after looking around first you swing into the back alley. A musty, stiff air nearly has you gagging as you notice the overfilled garbage disposal — when you're done with your current chores you should probably do something about that, but right now you just plug your nose and swoop towards the locked door, blockaded from sight by crates and such.

Adjusting the bags, you knock on the door using a familiar rhythm to inform them that it's you.

Still, she asks, "Who's there?" It's not exactly meek, but still cautious.

"Hi Mamma," you call out. "I'm just bringing by some groceries."

A pause, and then, "Of course. Come in, dear."

You open the door after some locks are clicked from inside, and you're greeted by an uncharacteristically-dim setting. Only the light (a gracious term) that glids from the door illuminates your footing. You shake the dirt off your shoes and the lights flicker on when a swtich is pulled from behind. After the room bursts into lively color, she shuts the door after you in a bit of a frenzy.

There's Moomin's mother that you turn to face: a warmth envelops you like a hug as you trade smiles you both don't wear often anymore. Unlike your own grin, hers is cracked in the wrong places from age and stress; you take into account too how her hair seems so much greyer and damper than when you'd last visited —which was about a week ago, give or take. But her eyes remain bright, crinkled along the edges, when she says, "Hello, love."

"Hello Mamma," you say again; with a hint of reluctance you dare to ask, "How are you?"

Her sigh is gusty and a dullness sweeps along her features when she answers, "Same as last time, I believe. May I carry your bags?"

"Oh! You can if you want, but I'm fine if—"

"Nonsense, you're our guest," her smile returns. "I'm happy to help."

So you transfer a few bags over to Mamma's direction, with you still clinging to the heavier ones — despite her denial you do see the crooked stature of age creeping through her and her husband's demeanors like early shadows, and you'd hate to bring any more weight onto their already-drooping shoulders.

In these moments you have to despise Moomin for leaving. Their ages have never shown so prominently until now.

You walk into the kitchen and still repress sorrow at the appearance of it so diminished: since they've retreated into Pappa's workshop for residence and closed down their shop until further notice, the front of the house has grown so barricaded and unwelcoming — and so terribly unlike what you're used to.

So many of your memories are in this house — even with the backdrop of your terrible romance with Moomin, the open warmth of his house and parents never wavered. And so your recollections here are sweetened; honeyed with nostalgia, maybe, but they're nice to hold onto and something to fall back on in rough patches. With Mamma's meals served at the table, and Pappa's busy work that wailed throughout the house which his wife would never apologize for. It's nice, given that your house is too empty since Snork is usually off on errands.

But now it's holed off from the rest of the world like an abandoned bomb shelter: you catch slivers of broken glass glinting from the carpet near the covered windows. All the furniture is cloaked in sheets like abnormally-shaped ghosts, and there's a draft waning through.

It's crushing to walk into such a prominent remnant of your childhood and seeing it destroyed, all by some anonymous new guys just dicking around for kicks.

You settle the bags onto the kitchen counter and notice Mamma doesn't reach for the lights. Luckily it's still bright out and you work with the light bleeding through agaped frames.

"How's work, dearest?" Mamma asks you just when the quiet becomes itchy and strange.

You shrug, placing a carton of eggs in the fridge. "Same old. Mr. Hemulen's car noise, Snork chewing me out, the usual."

She lightly chuckles. "Hopefully your brother isn't giving you too hard of a time?"

"Not any more than he always does." You opt to sigh in frustration. "It's so...patronizing! It's like, I get it, you're older than me and you pay the bills. Big whoop. But I'm not _thirteen_ or anything — in a couple months I'll be of drinking age and he _still_ bosses me around like a child!"

When you turn to retrieve and shelf the milk cartons, Mamma is leaning against the counter listening to your venting; although you've quickly turned away to finish your work in a fuzzy haste, you picture her expression soft and attentive as ever.

"I don't know," you finish clumsily. "I wish he wasn't so dismissive of me all the time. I still hold my breath for when he's gonna tell me everything I'm feeling is just a phase."

Mamma hums. "He wouldn't say anything so harsh, especially knowing how much it would hurt you."

"He might not _say_ it, but he could still _think_ it."

She doesn't reply — not because you've cornered her but because she's obviously quelling a response so you can come to your own conclusions. Or she knows you well enough to see you're not in any mood to heed advice, and she considers her words a waste of breath. Both options leave you feeling a bit tetchy, if you're honest — but you're not, so you continue unpacking items.

"And how's Alicia?" Mamma changes the subject and you let her, mostly because the mention of your girlfriend gives you that fizzy feeling like strawberry pop, dissolving any ill-tempers instantly.

"She's well! I'm stopping by Sniff's after this, but then I'm heading over to her place to hang out." You smile at no one in particular as you paw through the bags; you carry some granny smiths over to the sink for a quick wash. "Her grandma is still insistent on her taking over the shop so she's stressing about that, espcially since she wants to pick up on her side hobbies more."

"Which involved selling jewelry, yes?" Mamma asks, and you nod.

"More like magick items, but yeah, jewelry is up there too." You continue bathing the apples in water and add, "I know how she feels, being squandered by family business, and also not really knowing what we wanna do with ourselves in the long run. So we talk about it a lot."

"I'm sure she feels very fortunate to have you."

"I hope so!" you say. "I don't know where _I'd_ be without her, that's for sure."

You feel Mamma's hand on your shoulder in assurance — she's drifted over whilst you were gushing — and kindly reaches down to retrieve the clean apples. Her long hair, bouncy and blonde but a bit ashier than your own color, spills across your shoulder as she bends down into the sink; you remember being little and wanting a perm so badly to replicate her natural curls.

A creak from the stairway some distance off, followed by well-known grunts, indicates you have a visitor. Mamma calls out from where she's storing the apples away in the pantry, "It's just Snorkmaiden, dear."

"Ah, I figured so." Pappa's voice echoes along the lonely room; you hide a wince at how tired he sounds, like you've woken him from a nap. Which is fine, but Pappa was never one for dozing around until recently.

You walk away from the kitchen to greet Pappa at the bottom of the steps. You hug him lightly, minding the cane in his hand that you're purposely avoiding, and he murmurs, "Lovely to see you again, Snorkmaiden."

The way he says your name, like it's always been there on his lips, has the faintest of birdsong lightening your heart.

"Same to you, Pappa," you say. You also note that he's not wearing his hat; the bald spots he's so keen on hiding are so carelessly exposed now and it's jarring. To see him so unkempt and threadbare is so adjacent that you almost want to turn away entirely.

For courtesy's sake, you stick around to humor Pappa's questions about the ongoings of town (even if they're nothing, but you still try to make it sound entertaining just so he can look curious again). And you see his fingers twitch around the head of his cane as some sparks of his former spirit return the more you chat; you wish he could feel comfortable enough to be coaxed outside, it'd be good for him.

But then you remember you do have to leave soon to get to Alicia's before sundown — this fear of the night has swept across town and you've caught a whiff of it.

You give one final hug to each, promising to come back soon and not just because Mamma hands you off another list of errands they need finished.

"One more thing," Mamma asks before you leave, "Any...word, from Moomin?"

Your stomach twists into itself, the way it often does when you have to lie and more so recently when you're reminded of Moomin's absence. Heavily, you shake your head and look away. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Oh." You try so hard not to focus on her clearly surrended tone, practicing neutrality but failing. "Alright. Well, thank you anyways, Snorkmaiden."

"Chin up, darling!" Pappa comes over to swing an arm around his wife with his free hand, pulling her close with a smile that stretches too widely across his face. "I'm sure our boy is off on brilliant adventures and shall return home soon."

"Oh, I suppose," Mamma murmurs to him. "Perhaps he's been too busy to call."

"Perhaps indeed."

Neither party seems to believe the other, or even themselves. Their forged expressions of hope crest into trodden, silent stares at the floor.

You really hate lying to these folk, who on selfish days you'll admit you perceive as your own parents. And again if people asking (they're still not) you would tell them this and so much more. Especially pertaining to their son — which isn't much information but it's still more than they have themselves.

Still you bid your goodbyes and leave with a bitter tang in the back of your throat. Again you're reminded of the gap Moomin has wedged since he's left; you flee his empty house before it all becomes too much, and you break a vow you swore to a friend who hasn't called in much too long.

-

Sniff's mother is best described as just, well, the opposite of Mamma: timid and passive. You think of her as someone that's learned to blend into walls or corners to ensure her presence takes up as little space as possible, at the expense of folding herself over and over like paper, getting smaller. She's mousy, quiet, and extremely private; she's everything you can't stand being. But she makes up for this by being insatiably kind every time you visit. And for that you think she's lonely, but doesn't know what to do about it.

"Sniff is upstairs," she tells you, as she makes room for you to step inside. She talks like she's afraid of her own echo. "Would you like a snack?"

You shake your head. "I'm fine, thank you. Alicia invited me to dinner and I'd hate to spoil my appetite."

You only tack on this reasoning so you don't cause any personal offense, because with Fuzzy you're worried she might take it as such. And it's not like you _don't_ want her to come out of her shell more often (when have you ever seen her leave this house?) but she's rather flighty, and you're afraid of scaring her off.

Fuzzy leaves you be and you walk up the steps to Sniff's room; really it's the only place you two ever meet, considering that he never leaves it. But, taking into account the cruddy nature of your town — plus the new folk inhabiting it — you can kinda get why he doesn't leave.

Also, his room is _loaded_ with cool toys and games. He's a little younger than you and even you can admit his gadgets scoured up from his anonymous father are pretty sweet.

You knock twice, hear no response, and concoct that his volume is probably too loud. You invite yourself in anyway.

As aforementioned, Sniff's bedroom is a gold mine of arcade games, action figures and alike. Wall-to-wall it's plastered with books and toys and posters and any miscellaneous object he might find interesting; his bunk bed, formerly shared by his older brother, is now stockpiled with more boxes and toys on the top bunk. On the bottom bunk he sits against the wall with his tongue sticking out in high concentration, furiously thumbing his Game Boy.

You want to yank the headphones off his head to elicit a surely-funny response, but that might be rude since he could be in the middle of something important. So you just make deliberate noise as you skirt around to his bedside, tapping at bookshelves or his cartoony piggy banks and tugging the levers on that pinball machine he and Moomin always played on. Sniff still doesn't bat a lash in your direction.

So, as a last resort you just stand in front of him, tapping your heel as you wait for him to notice you. When he does after like a billion hours he comically jerks out of his seat with a yelp, throwing his console to the side.

"You could've KNOCKED first!!" he squeaks.

"I did."

"W-well, knock louder next time!" he huffs, his cheeks reddening. He looks away as he yanks off his headphones and stores the Game Boy under his pillow.

You make yourself comfy at the foot of his bedside; his beanbag is too far away so you'll just sit on the floor with crossed legs. "I just came over to see how you were doing."

Sniff makes a noise you don't bother interpreting as he springs off the bed to take a stretch break, pulling his arms overhead. You see his butt's made a in dent in the sheets behind him and you wonder how long he's been playing.

After popping his arms he gives a big sigh and replies, "Pretty good, actually! Dad sent a whole box of new games so I'm checking them out."

"Ah," you look around the disarrayed floor in a shoddy attempt to find all he's referring to. "So, where's the box, then?"

"I already took it apart," Sniff says. "But I can show you what he sent! Come see!"

He swoops back towards the bed and scurries underneath it, making little grunts of effort as he shuffles further back. You wait patiently — not that you're really a game connoisseur yourself, but Sniff always likes showing off the cool gifts his father delivers, and sometimes you _are_ intrigued by them. Sometimes it's something simple (a jar of cogwheels, which sits proudly on Sniff's nightstand), or something extravagant (the recent video console). The lack of in-betweens really keep you on your toes.

Finally Sniff gives a happy "Ah!" and shimmies back out, dragging with his a container full of cartridges. You lean forward on your knees as he starts excitedly pawing through it.

"Let's see..." He trails his fingers along the cards thoughtfully. "There's one game he gave me that's strictly multiplayer, but I think he only sent that 'cause he thinks Fuddler still lives here. But if you want, maybe when Moomin comes back we can all ply it together?"

You try to shrug nonchalantly, even at the painfully-subdued mention of Moomin. "Sure, why not? Your games are fun. Even if I'm quite bad at them," you add with a grin.

"You're not as bad as Moomin, though," Sniff says. "Remember that time he tried to start a new game but saved over his old file?"

"Oh, yes! The Zelda game!" You clap your hands together, laughing. "His poor face — ninety hours of gameplay just _gone!_"

"Not that he did much in those ninety hours anyway," Sniff giggles. "Don't tell him I told you this, but I found a walkthrough of the game and what you're supposed to do, and he really _sucked_."

You both share a fit of amusement at the memory, and when reality hits it's like a ton of bricks slammed into your stomach and throat. As Sniff finishes his laughing with a wipe of his eyes, you have to stop yourself from looking so disheartened when he gazes at you with a smile.

"I'm glad you came by," he says. "It's been lonely since Moomin left."

You do allow a frown, here. "You miss him as well?"

"Of course! Even if he's, well, a bit poor with games, he at least plays them with me." He shrugs a little. "Since Fuddler left for school I haven't had many playmates."

"You could...get in touch with your father maybe?" you try. "Maybe you could give him a visit."

"No, Dad doesn't leave any return addresses on his packages," Sniff sighs depletedly, "I've already asked Mom if we can go visit wherever he is, but she just says he _can't_ see us right now, whatever that means." He falls back and you're impressed he doesn't crack his spine on any toys strewn about. "She always talks about him being so much like me. I don't even _remember_ him."

_At least you have parents_ is totally something you could say if you were any less dignified. Although you do feel bad for your friend, it's hard to connect over troubles like this; you only ever had Snork to account for, family-wise.

You practice sympathy, though, and reach to give Sniff's knee a gentle pat. "Well, you might not have your father or brother right now, but you do have me," you say. "Sorry if that isn't much, but it's still something."

"Yeah, I guess." He doesn't sound convinced, but still springs back up to give you an attempted grin. "So, wanna check out my new games?"

Actually, it's getting pretty late; you need to meet up with Alicia pretty soon for dinner, and Snork might not like picking you up to chaffeur you around so late.

"...Sure, I've got time."

-

It's an hour into playing games with Sniff that you can't ignore the darkening horizon any longer; Fuzzy gives you a thanks for spending time with her son as you bolt downstairs, and you threw a goodbye over your shoulder as you ran outside.

You rush to Alicia's door in record-time, panting and probably a gross, sweaty mess even with the cool breeze pooling through the valley. The street lights illuminate your pathway so you don't feel too barricaded by night, and you stay on the right side of the sidewalk, avoiding alleyways: a new practice.

The condo you rush up the steps towards provides the same sorts of rejuvenation that Moomin's house does. The curtains are closed but you can see through the cracks that the lights are still on, so you're not _terribly_ tardy.

You only have to ring the doorbell once before Alicia expectantly swings the door open. "You're late."

"I'm sorry." You're still gulping breaths and your chest is beginning to burn. "I became a little occupied."

"It seems so." Her voice is tinted along the edges, velvety, and you know she isn't truly mad. Then she makes room so you can come inside. "Grandmother is sleeping so we best not disturb her, but I left some food from dinner out if you want it."

"I do, thank you," you smile warmly, and as you step inside you lean forward for a quick peck, feeling alight with love again. Alicia meets your kiss halfway, all supposed irritations forgotten.

The familiar whiff of strong aromas emitting from every corner of the house mingles in the back of your throat, but you're nice and don't comment because you know each scent has some sort of spiritual meaning behind its presence, or whatever. Mismatched candles and such decorate each stable surface, so may that you're certain it's some fire hazard. And sure, it's strong on the senses, but it's Alicia's trademark, alongside all the fine tapestries and earthy gemstones of pressed flowers that she hangs along the walls. There's definitely an art to being witchy, what with all her spellbound books stockpiled with care on shelves, her salt lamps and oils, and other items with unknown intentions.

Her grandmother's touch lingers in every dark-colored wall and misantrhopic curtain shut, doors locked and dim lighting — but there's also her granddaughter's care that overshadows this; she smiles for both of them in photographs and if you look hard enough, happy animal figurines and healthy potted plants are found in odd places, like a scavenger hunt.

Alicia leads you to the kitchen to help prep a bowl of leftover stew still on the pot, then kindly offers you some drinks from the fridge. You decline, saying you'll make whatever you desire yourself — your girlfriend's house is brimming with alcohol and she's sure to accidentally give you some, given that she really doesn't care about you being underage. You begin to brew some tea for yourself since the stove is still warm; like Moomin's place, you're cognizant with the placements of everything enough so you don't need assistance in grabbing the kettle or tea leaves.

"So how was work, honey?" Alicia calls from the table, having sat down to watch you work, and you snort.

"It was _fantastic._ Never a dull moment." You pour the leaves into the infuser — earl grey, best to stay simple (and conscious) — and continue, "Honestly I don't know why Snork doesn't just fire me; he can take care of the whole damned shop himself if he's so high-strung about it. Ugh. You know last week he told me to lose the locket?"

"Oh right, the locket of your ex?"

You ignore her tone. "He said it wasn't a good fit and it'd eventually slip out from under my shirt and I'd choke or whatever, I was only half-listening." You groan. "Like, _yeah_ I haven't been sleeping well, maybe it'd kill you to, I don't know, feel sorry for me every once in a while? Instead of yelling at me? That'd be nice."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Alicia sighs; she leans back in her chair some. "But I'm glad you're talking about it."

"Maybe," you shrug. "I can't do anything _but_ as of late. But I just...worry. I know I tend to ramble, but I do hate when I do it, since I know people get tired of hearing me. I can tell when everyone starts zoning me out. It sucks."

"It's still good to let it out, though," she rebuttals matter-of-fact. "I know you've been really stressed because of— well, you know, The Being That Shan't Be Named?"

Despite your gloom, you do give a bright laugh. "I _know_ you don't like Moomin but it's not gonna kill you to say his name."

"It might!" Alicia's eyes go wide. "You don't know, maybe I've put a terrible curse on him, so even the mere mention is a bad omen!"

"You wouldn't!" you reply, amused. "And I might not totally get your magick lifestyle but I _highly_ doubt that's how it all works."

"Ah, true," Alicia shrugs. "I couldn't curse him anyway, Grandmother forgot to buy more sage this week so my rituals are a bit compromised until I can go to the store."

"Please don't curse my friend."

"I make no promises," she says lightly — but a part of you believes she isn't joking. Which is fair: after all the dirt of your relationship drifted to the surface it was Alicia you cried to, so of course she assumes so poorly of a guy that broke your heart, accidental or not.

Still. The tea brews in the kettle and you head over to sit with her before your stew gets too cold, as you had to move it to warm your drink. "So!" you begin, setting your napkin in your lap, "Any new horror stories from work?"

"Oh, of course!" Alicia answers much too excitedly. "As if you had to ask! All these new customers rolling in are just itching for a fight, and I'm so eager for when it all boils over — it hasn't _yet_ but I'm sure it will. You can't put a bunch of wasted men in a room together and _not_ expect hell to break loose. It's fascinating."

"Interesting creatures, those men," you hum, then nibble on your stew a little before adding, "I'm certain _I_ wouldn't want to watch a bunch of creeps hit each other, but I wish you luck in your endeavors."

“It’s the most fun I can afford, so let me have this.”

“What, is being a bartender on a shoddy area in town not to your personal tastes?” you tease.

She shrugs with a coy little smile. “I guess you’re right, it comes quite naturally to myself, being surrounded by _spirits_ all day.” She winks.

“Ugh,” you respond good-naturedly.

Alicia's eyes just gleam. "Well, no use discussing drunken bastards," and she gestures behind to the stove, where the kettle is veering on a wail soon. "Please watch that closely, I'd hate to wake Grandmother."

"Oh! Right." You scurry over to the pot and transfer it to a cool stovetop, taming its whistles. Then you call over, "Tea for yourself?"

"What kind?"

"Earl grey."

"It's a bit late, but thank you anyway."

The world adjusts into a pattern as old as the house's ancient creaks, with you and Alicia laughing over your tea and then you're trailing up the steps to her bedroom, your dinner plates simmering in the sink, and you share wisps of quiet laughter, kissing over nothing in particular.

And it's...nice, to retreat into this state. Where she brings out hair dye and asks if you're ready for a switch since the pink on your ends is fading, and you decline because not yet. Where you look up at her ceiling coated with tapestries of intricate floral patterns and alike, where you can get lost in it, finding shapes that may or may not be there. Your temples almost touching as you lay across her bed, your hands lost in hers.

"Do you still miss Moomin?" Alicia asks softly after a while, which startles you a bit; you thought she'd fallen asleep.

You nod, and you know she understands even when you're not looking at each other. Her ginger hair twists into your own blonde/pink tresses even if there's not as much of it, given her shortened cut.

You expect some snarky comment to follow suit, usually along the lines of _You shouldn't be moping because he's not worth your time_ or _He doesn't deserve you_.

"He'll come back." You can't pick up what she's feeling, her voice barely above a whisper. Joan Jett is hardly drowning out her voice or anything, since the radio volume is so low it's almost on mute, but still she's quiet. Her fingers knead into your knuckles tightly, comfortingly, so you don't drift away. "You're too wonderful to leave behind."

You try to laugh, maybe. But it comes out wrong.

As you sit, the world outside has grown cruel; you can't stay inert against it all forever, Moomin's strange friend and the new men in town prove that everything will just find its way to your doorstep if you don't budge. Also, considering this temporary moment of peace with your girlfriend, you remember how irritable Snork would get when he has to come pick you up late again, and the adrift feelings of bliss are squashed.

Your mantra of dreams flattens back into your reality, leaving you starved and grasping for things that have long gone.


	2. i gnaw myself, i lose hope, and my mind is burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which talks are had, for better or worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't figured out what snorkmaiden's deal is then here's the Tell-All Chapter so ur welcome and good luck

The next morning begins with the common pains found from dozing off in a chair: your back creaks and your tailbone is to quick to follow in its complaints. The soreness rouses you from slumber; you grouse at the stupor that comes from not only sleeping in an awkward position smushed against the wall, but also sleeping with your makeup on. Wonderful.

You blink into the world, frowning at the clotted mascara on the hand you've pulled away from your cheek. You'll wash your face after breakfast; you're already downstairs and closer to the kitchen anyway.

The telephone's cord left curled imprints along your skin where you'd lain against it. And your body, you find, has also been smothered as best as able by a blanket — a blanket you have no recollection of retrieving.

After wrapping yourself in the quilt like a bath towel, you stumble your way into the kitchen, feeling like you've gotten just the right amount of sleep to be cognizant, but not enough to be rested. Oh, how heavily you took advantage of dreams.

Snork is at the table, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he sips coffee and looks over some papers (probably something or other tax-related, adult stuff you're not allowed to peek at). You make your way over to the coffee machine, half-empty but still hot, and when you pour yourself a mug Snork taps over to the seat beside him with his pen, an you see that he's already laid out your medications for you to take.

You're not a _child_, you're perfectly capable of getting your own pills out of the medicine cabinet.

But you sit in complacence anyway, trying to be endeared that he went through the trouble, and gulp down the pills with your sugared caffeine.

"I won't ask you to take your blood pressure this time," Snork says without looking up. "But I will ask that we can check it sometime this week, just to see."

You plot your mug down on the table and look over with a dull glare. "You need to stop worrying over those damned things, I said before that I'd tell you if I felt anything different."

"I just want to make sure," he insists. "I know last month your, ah, chest was having some bad pains."

Heat floods your cheeks with both embarrassment and defense. "That's _normal_, Snork! All of what I'm feeling is a normal part of the process and I'd appreciate it if you didn't double-take every time that I mention my boobs hurt or my feet are sore—"

"The muscles in your feet are adapting to your body and that's an important milestone to know about!" For this he does look up at you, a bit indignant but he doesn't seem angry. Reproachful he hedges, "Is this because I wouldn't let you take heavier doses?"

The wave of irritation you're riding subsides, and you lean back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. "_No_, I'm just..." You make a vague gesture with your hand in substitution for an appropriate term, then decide on, "Impatient."

Your brother just nods. He sets the papers he's holding down. "I know the smaller quantities might not feel like they're making a difference, but personally _I'm_ seeing a big change in your development. I want to hear what's happening with your body so I know how I can help, however minute you believe the detail might be."

"I know," you sigh, gruffly. You prop your head up in your palm and glare at the table. "But _I'm_ not seeing any changes. I feel just as hairy and sweaty and gross as I've always been." You look over. "Do you want to hear _that_ or should I just keep telling you that I don't give a single shit about our parents' diabetic history?"

Snork seems surprised, but doesn't dignify himself with any sort of answer — which feels nice to have him shut up for once. Although you think he's silent not because you've won, but because he's simply shoved your grievances under the rug again, because he can't relate. It's always this way with romance and girly problems and alike, where he doesn't know what to say so he leaves the talking to you. And you're prickly about it when you don't just want to rant, but also would like him to voice some empathy. It wouldn’t kill him to simply say, "Wow, that sucks."

The surgery date is coming soon; you snuck a peek at his checkbooks and you know he's preparing for a critical financial hit. It _does_ sting, how he pretends that it isn't a big deal but you know it is, like he doesn't think you can handle it when it's absolutely _your_ business too. Maybe it's an attempt to alleviate your outpourings of anxiety but it's not working. Once again you're left in the dark because you're fragile.

The toaster dings.

"Oh, I made you some strudels," Snork deters, nodding over to where it sits upon the counter. “Perhaps they’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks.” Either he ignores your tone or just doesn’t hear the dripping sarcasm within it. Both are plausible and leave you feeling grumpier as you trudge over to the strudels — strawberry-flavored, because naturally.

“Are you going over to Moomin’s place again?” your brother suddenly asks.

Taking a bite you say with a muffled tongue, “Eventually. Why?”

He just gives a sort of nonplussed, perhaps displeased look as he continues toying with papers. “They’ve been demanding a lot from you recently. Can’t they just do their own chores instead of forcing you to do them?”

“They’re not _forcing_ me to do anything,” you protest. “They mean an awful lot to me, you know.”

“I know.” He won’t stop looking at you, for once. “But I also know that you tend to go to great lengths for approval, and I’m just making sure you aren’t doing that again.”

Groan. “Can you _please_ stop asking me about all this heavy shit when I literally _just_ woke up.”

Your brother does that god-awful thing he does where he sniffs, adjusts his glasses, and looks away in a subtle announcement of passive-aggression, and that doesn’t help your mood any further. Somehow he’s been able to strip you bare of any remaining confidence and you haven’t even started your breakfast yet; these jabs at your character have started happening more and more frequently since Moomin left and you don’t know what he’s getting at but you also _so_ do not care right now.

Grabbing a plate for your strudels, with one propped in your mouth, and your other hand holding your coffee mug, you trot up the steps and hope that Snork has the decency to feel offput or even guilty by how loudly you’re stomping, then slam your bedroom door with the butt of your heel.

(You can surely bet that he feels neither of these things.)

-

Okay, Moomin was sound with _some_ of his complaints: one being the soil is too raggedy and thin for any gardens — or greenery in general. You think this with a bitter tongue in your cheek as you crunch some dead grass underfoot for daring to attempt sprouting beneath cruddy sidewalks.

Another day, another errand run for…Fuzzy today, you believe? You’ll have to reread your to-do list that jammed into your purse, but your hands are currently reheating in your pockets and you’re in no mood to move them. So you trudge on, blindly; a perk about knowing everyone and everything here is you’re bound to run into purpose if you just keep walking.

Slowly your morning rancor feels unrighteous in the crisp air, and you release it with a long sigh and a flutter of your eyes upward. The pale sky offers nothing of value; you feel your heel tug on more weeds so you stomp on them too.

It’s not that you’re jealous of Moomin or anything; if he wanted to run off into the sunset with some potentially-dodgy kid just for kicks…well, that’s his problem. He can’t crawl back and say you didn’t warn him! And you _almost_ want him back just so you can scream and say _I told you so_ to SOMEone; to have that brief consequence entailed by no one taking you seriously ever.

(You do want him back for other reasons — namely, you’re worried; but being moody is an easier state to slip into and a renowned staple to your character.)

No matter how much you try to please others it’s all a wasted effort. No one is _ever_ going to take you seriously, what with all your piercings and freckles that won’t dissolve in the cold, your hair that you keep changing over and over because nothing feels _right_, your odd body that stores fat in all the wrong areas, your loud mouth and bossy demeanor and girly interests. And it’s not like you can give any of that up, so, here you are in eternal frustration. Waiting for something to blow up that isn’t yourself, for once.

You walk, chilly and impatient, when sharp tongues emitting from an alleyway catches your attention.

Often you try to avoid this ratty part of town, but given that you’re still on that lookout for self-worth it seems your primal brain kicked in and you’re on your way to Alicia’s workplace. Honestly you don’t know how she stands working at that rundown pub; it’s attracts too much weird attention.

Like so: being, cloaked men draped in shadows like it’s weaponry, huddled over some poor bloke that can’t seem to answer any of their questions. You see one hand trail to his belt’s hem, feeling for something, and an internal whirlwind of _STOP_ rushes forth and you step in.

“Excuse me!”

Which, given forethought, is the most ridiculous thing you’ve done in a very long time.

The men appear, of course, bewildered and a little agitated at your interruption; their scowls deepen, but outside of that the shadows cast a decent portion of their features so you can’t see if any of them are familiar. The one that’s pinning the supposed victim against the wall straightens up and hones you in; you think his bowler hat is both out of season and ridiculous, but you don’t say this.

“Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something, sweetheart?” He sounds like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes, all scratchy and you wish he’d clear his throat at most.

Somehow you stand firm and hold your shoulders up even though you want to turn tail now. “What exactly are you doing to this poor man?” you ask.

He scoffs. “What does it look like?” Then he waves a hand patronizingly, “Now run off and don’t worry your pretty little head about this, it’s men’s business right now.”

Your fist curls around the strap of your purse. “Suppose I run off to the police, then?”

Another scoff. “That’s real cute, you still believing those flatfoots being able to stop us.”

“And what makes you above the law?”

“Have you _seen_ a policeman around these parts of late, love?” The man’s features darken and the playful condescension he once carried has faded. He releases the man against the wall, which is something of a victory on your behalf but you’re more focused on how he advances towards you, squaring his shoulders. “I respect your hustle, sweetie, I really do. It’s nice to wanna be the light in a dying, godforsaken world, isn’t it? To be the hero for that one glimpse of adoration? It’s common, hon, I’ve met many dames like yourself.”

You step back. “That’s not—”

“Hey!” The accomplice you’d forgotten about speaks up; you peek over the man’s shoulder to see him giving you a thrice-over — and you fight the urge to shelter off sections of your body you’d rather not him investigate, and just hold his stare instead.

“Aren’t you that lady we saw with the Moomin folk?” he inquires, then doesn’t even wait for you to respond before his voice drops, “Are you here to spy on us? You makin’ sure we don’t approach your dastardly bunch?”

_Dastardly bunch?_ “Excuse me?”

“Oh, use those doe-eyes all you wish!” you snap. “You know what we mean, that Moomin and his dame are no good for this town, surprised he hasn’t gotten you to perform any of his dirty work! But by the looks of it,” he takes a rude gander around the alley, “it seems like he doesn’t need to mess up this dump more than it already is.”

You stare between them all, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s probably why he ran off to this town in the first place,” the first man ignores you with a sneer at his partner. “Nothing else he can ruin.”

(At least as they're talking, the poor soul they've trapped has some time to breathe, even if he doesn't appear confident enough to beeline out of there yet.)

The weapon you saw him fondling beneath his shirt is a pistol and it gleams as he tosses it about in his palm, teasingly. "Tell you what," he says. "We'll let you off the hook if you promise to deliver Moomin a message."

"Which is?"

Then the gun is aimed at your temple. "That he better keep himself out of our way or he can expect your bodies to be wound up on his fucking doorstep."

Your mouth is dry and you fold your tongue about the inside of your cheeks, resisting the urge to pick at your rings in case, well, in case your nervous tics call for them to shoot or in case you pull on it so fiercely it rips right out of your nostrils.

"I don't know where he's hiding or if he's left this town completely," the man continues, "but if he tries to cross us again he can either pay up _or_ have a closed casket funeral."

"I..." You exchange a glance with the men, bewildered still. "I'm not...understanding."

One sniffs. "You're just the messenger, sweetheart, don't worry about it."

Purportedly so, but even still this talk of violence like it's some form of code is making you uneasy. What would they want from Moomin's father in the first place? It's not like he's anything but a harmless romantic, emphasis on harmless — if he's anything like his son he wouldn't hurt a fly.

(A budding revelation surfaces in the back of your mind — when Moomin came to you before he left and aired out his new anger for his parents; he mentioned that they lied to him but that was about all he was willing to tell, and maybe you'd be optimistic enough to presume he was overreacting as he tended to do. But now...)

"I'll...tell him," you say slowly.

They appear pleased, then make way so the one they're holding captive can retreat. He does so, nearly knocking you over as he sprints back into the safety of the light and makes a sharp corner to the right, disappearing forever. _You're welcome_, you frown after him.

You've already overstayed; glancing back at the men who are calling you sweetly to "run along now," you hold yourself up and leave with a bit more dignity than the other had, even though your feet are aching to run like a dog with its tail between its legs.

-

You hadn’t even bothered to fish for your errands list to see whether or not Fuzzy needed your help today because you immediately sprinted to Moomin’s house, discarding all worries of being followed into the wind and slamming your secret knock into the doorway ferociously.

Moomin’s mother was naturally surprised to see you in such a state, as the aftershocks of the confrontation left you fairly frazzled and your feet aching as you remembered that you ran all this way in fairly-small high heels. You pop them off, feeling comfortable enough to do so, and sit in Pappa’s workshop as Mamma fetches you a glass of water from the fridge.

You’re unsure how exactly you’re going to bring up the encounter, or if you should do so at all; who’s to say whether or not you did, anyway? But, out of obligation and the creeping paranoia like an invisible gun is being pressed to your head, you get a few gulps of your drink in before you reveal what just occurred.

Carefully, you inspect Mamma’s face for a single trace of oddity: alarm or fright or concern or something else, or all of the above. But aside from a few crinkles in her brow at the right placements within the story, she continues to hold her commentary close to her chest — again, when you were little and lacking a maternal figure to hold yourself to, her delicate presentation mixed with caution was enamoring to you, but now it just leaves you feeling further aggravated. Mamma isn’t one to display anything on her sleeve she deems excessive or worrisome; but, perhaps, her deliberately-blank expression and overcast gaze _could_ foretell something worth bothering over.

You’re holding your glass tightly against your lap when you have to repeat their threats in a whispered tone, barely holding your own eyes to Mamma’s ever-gentle pair which do crease a little, as suspected. But then she leans forward in the chair she’s seated herself against and adjusted so she may face you, realizes she’s still rather far, and scooches the seat closer so she can properly smooth your hair.

Her smile is very small and thin. “I’m sorry if that caused you any fright,” she murmurs. “They should have known better than to get you involved in this.”

This anxiety that you’ve packed away is launched into the forefront again at her wording. You provide a skeptical frown but don’t pull away from the touch. “Is there anything _to_ be involved in that I should know about?”

Her fingers dawdle a bit along your dyed locks, providing an answer before she gives one, and it’s a heavy ton of bricks slowly stockpiling in your torso. This anonymity is worse and now your ears are stuffed uncomfortably and you can only hear your fingernails tapping your water glass, the distant ticking of an old clock.

“I had thought Moomin told you what happened, before he left,” she says, a bit sadly. “I assumed he would have gone to you last before he went with Snufkin, presumably” (_god this sucks you really really really wanna spill everything but you cannot you’re gonna kick his ass_) “but since he hasn’t…I suppose I’ll do my best to explain everything’s that’s been occurring.” She puckers her lips a little, in heavy concentration, before asking, “Would you like me to do your hair before we begin?”

You feel like a child about to be told a daunting tale, and the urge to scurry into the lap of a woman who didn’t even birth you is so strong and a bit pathetic, but there’s no one here to judge. So you nod a little, and Mamma’s soft grin returns.

You get into a position to where your legs may dangle over the armchair and you’re not awkward when you lean your head back whilst facing away from Mamma. She and Alicia (and Moomin, sometimes) are really the only ones allowed to mess with your hair because you trust them with it; she reaches to the sides first and pulls them back with precision and also hesitance, just in case you opt out. You don’t, so you sit compliantly and feel her tugging into the roots so she can make some sort of complex braid.

Then she tells you everything, in bits and pieces so you can digest it as best you can:

She tells you about her years as a lawyer, often protecting those accused of very serious crimes like murder and such; how she was the youngest of three sisters and her family was financially overloaded, and going into this line of work seemed the best fit for familial reputation. How this waned with every case, and she was on her last straw when Pappa was assigned as her client due to his associations with a very big gang at the time. How she may have not liked her job, but she was quite good at it, and her soon-to-be husband was dismissed on almost all charges despite his evident involvement, how his graciousness turned to love and they agreed to shoulder both the goods and bads of their past as one. How the criminals she’d inadvertently damned have been freed as of late and roam in search of answers or justice or money, anything really to stir up old trouble.

And it’s…a lot.

It’s a lot, when she lays it all out like that and you’re left to your own conclusions. And she notices how heavy this tugs against your impressions of them, these folk you consider family, as she peeks over from whatever she’s designing your hair to be, and asks, “Are you alright, Snorkmaiden? Granted, I know this is a lot of information at once, so do take the time you need if necessary, but—”

“No.” You shake your head even with Mamma’s fingers still tightly wound within your braids. “No, I’m fine, I’m certain I’m fine, but…it _is_ a lot to consider.”

“I know it is,” she murmurs, so wistful you can’t identify what emotion she’s portraying. “That was why we both struggled with what we were to tell Moomin — he’s of age, of course, so one way or another he was bound to discover everything, but… Mo— Pappa was determined to keep everything under wraps, for our safety and especially his.” She chuckles a little, despite. “Granted, I presume my dearest was more desperate to save face than anything, but still. We both tossed this over many times and could never find a proper conclusion.”

“So he…”

“He found out on his own, yes,” Mamma answers. “I wish he hadn’t only because he was so angry; he thought we’d keep him in the dark forever.”

“But, would you have? …Told him, I mean.” Even though she isn’t finished, you turn to her so she can catch a glimpse of your slightly-disapproving frown, as you empathize with Moomin’s placement in all this.

“I couldn’t bear it if he went through life not knowing, so no, I don’t think we’d argue over it forever,” she says, earnestly, and you have every right to believe her. Then her hands still and meet in her lap, crossing together and you see all the lines embedded in the bone, nimble enough to stitch wounds and scarves and yet here they shake if you focus on them long enough. Her gaze falls to them and her lashes are long enough so you can’t see her green pupils and what they hold within.

“I’m not mad at my son,” she finally admits, placid. “And I can’t regret my past either because it’s led me to where I am, and I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time without the restraint of wealth pinning me down. But I’m worried we raised Moomin under the illusion that it wasn’t okay for him to be angry with us. We are more than capable of doing just as much wrong as anyone else, but we didn’t illustrate that properly and that might have been why he reacted so poorly — among other reasons.”

“He still loves you,” you say, a bit too naively.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, hatred and anger don’t have to correspond,” Mamma responds seamlessly, but immediately her tone drops again, “Still, we didn’t give him the tools to cope with our mistakes before he ran off. I regret that so very much.”

Then she looks up at you. “I ask again, are you alright hearing this, dear?”

You think for a minute.

“Well…it _is_ a shock but that’s because you’re the nicest folk I’ve ever met,” you shrug. “And I’d be hypocritical to base people on their past selves rather than their current one, but it’s still really surprising — you a lawyer and Pappa a mobster!” Saying this aloud brings forth laughter even though it’s not too funny. “This does explain these newcomers being so angry…right?”

Mamma sighs. “We’re likely to blame, yes. Their sentences have begun to wane likely from good behavior or overpopulation within the jails — and based on the heavy crime rates around this area I’m presuming it’s the latter.”

“Hmm,” you tap your forefinger along the glass you’re still gripping onto. “Would it be of any use to give them what they want? They mentioned money, and—”

“It’s something we dare not tread into after all these years,” Mamma declines. “We’re much older and less experienced within that field — it could have evolved into something else entirely and we best not delve into it without foreknowledge, which would involve interacting folks that might not even be willing to speak to us.” She sighs again and shakes her head. “You can see now why we’re so cornered at the moment, and why the recent events have left us rather exhausted.”

“I do,” you say. “I’m…is it strange to say ‘I’m sorry’ even when this is the result of your own actions?”

She laughs some. “It’s still kind to hear.”

You lean back so she can return to work: you feel her now beginning to meld the braids into a bun atop your head and you’ll have to demand a mirror later so you can see the final product. It’s quiet again, but this leads you to chewing on everything you’ve just learned, and you’re surprised to find yourself sympathetic for both parties: the parents and your best friend. No wonder everyone was toeing a line with you — not because you can’t handle the information but because it’s all just so _odd_. What a burden to carry.

Now you tote it as well, willingly even when the circumstances had somewhat coerced you into this. But…you’re not _mad_ is the thing. It’s a lightbulb that’s been flicked on overhead and makes things around you a bit clearer, for once. You’d be angrier if Mamma had just shrugged you off and told you not to fret.

“There.” Mamma leans back to admire whatever’s become of your hairdo, looking pleased at another job well done. “What a very pretty girl you are, Snorkmaiden! I don’t have to do much to highlight your natural beauty.”

You blush a little and hide your mouth behind fingers. “Thank you, Mamma.”

“Of course.” She hesitates, then asks, “Snorkmaiden, I’m sincere when I say that you’re allowed to feel upset or disappointed with us. I want you to know that.” You turn and she’s wearing a very somber expression you hardly see her wear: her features aren’t shadowed with defeat as they often are nowadays and it makes her even more admirable. “It is all yours to feel and no one is allowed to take that away from you. You’re a very strong girl — you can be a nice young woman and an angry one, both may coexist.”

“I’m not angry,” you tell her, honestly. “I promise I’m not. You would know if I was.”

“Even so, that is allowed to change at any time and we would understand,” she insists somewhat firmly, surprising you. “You’re not any less of a woman if you show sorrow or fury.”

Then, arms circle across the front of your neck to pull you in, sweeping you into a hug as Mamma folds you into her chest like you’re little. She’s soft like you, but still burly from her time baking and doing heavy housework when Pappa is holed up in his office all day. You cast your head to the side and your cheek sinks into the meat of her upper arm: it’s an old habit of clinging to her like she’s yours, but again no one is here to take away your indulgences.

“I might have more questions later, should I come up with any,” you admit. “But if I become upset over anything I’ll tell you. It’s just…odd, to hear anyone actually _wanting_ me to be temperamental about anything. But I’m glad you’re a good person, after everything; you and Pappa, but…especially you. That makes me feel…I don’t know, it just feels nice.”

“That’s good,” Mamma says, tightening her grip one final time before withdrawing. “Shall I go get Pappa so we can discuss this more, or would you just like to sit?”

“I’d rather sit,” you say. “If that’s okay, I mean. I would like to hear his side, just because— well, no offense, but he definitely needs to explain himself more about his mobster connections. Like, did he kill anyone?”

She burst into laughter, bemused, but doesn’t answer your question (???). When she simmers down her love is still shimmering across her face, easygoing and soft like how you remember her being before all of this. “I’ll get you more water if you wish, and you’re free to stay for lunch should you please.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Food is always ready for you here, Snorkmaiden. I hope you know this.”

-

It’s night and again you’re returned from daily chores to the phone — which, as reported by your brother, has not rung all day. You pretend you expected as much, and that the gap in your chest isn’t tearing open just a bit further.

With all of this out in the open and given room to breathe, you miss Moomin now more than ever; at least now you wouldn’t have to hand out blind reassurances anymore, even when you were truthful that his anger is his own and he has every right to it. 

(And even though you still cannot fully grasp that it’s as much of your right to hate as anybody else, Moomin _should_ have the privilege to grieve. You just wish you could grieve together now.)

As dinner approaches and Snork works around the kitchen you sit on the couch and watch some shows, then read another chapter of one of your novels (wrongly dubbed by Moomin as ‘trashy’). You paint over your nails as they’ve lost their original blue luster, look in the mirror and imagine yourself with short hair but that’s a disgusting thought, and even with your brother’s implicit disapproval you seat yourself beside the phone out of habit.

“That does you no good to sit and wait all day,” he calls over, peeking his head around the corner from where he’s reheating some matzah soup from last…week, maybe??

“I haven’t been sitting _all_ day,” you rebuke curtly. “You know I’ve been out.”

“Yes, running errands for other people when I advised against it.”

You exhale sharply through your nose and plot down the brush you’re smoothing your bangs with (although you’re careful not to have it tread over any of Mamma’s work by mistake, which is still up and tidy). “Honestly, Snork, you speak of me like I’m twelve. And you think _I’m_ a busybody.”

“That’s not—” He gives up midway to bring a tired pinch of fingers to his nose and the bridge of his glasses, making a show of exasperation like a _drama queen_. “Snorkmaiden, I know you’re biting back because I’m saying things you’d rather not me say.”

_No shit._

“But I _am_ getting concerned,” he sighs. “Your tendency to colorize yourself into whatever others wish is going to wear you thin. I’m seeing its affects now more than ever since Moomin left.”

You face him angrily.

“And yet _your_ wishes are far greater than anyone else’s, it seems,” you snap, “because all you do is boss me around and say you know what’s best for me without listening to what _I_ have to say on the matter!”

Snork’s eyes widen a little because it’s been a minute since you’ve yelled, but it all rushes in like an avalanche and you’re unable to filter these true, unbridled sentiments from boiling over.

“Snorkmaiden—”

“You don’t think I’m sincere, is the problem!” you shout over him. “You think I’m a whimsical character that can’t bother to _think_ for herself — you don’t hold weight to _any_ of what I have to say!”

“_Snorkmaiden_—”

“You don’t even address me as your sister.”

He stops whatever he has to say and falls into deathly shock. “What?”

There are tears, very overdue and very angry tears, that are going to mess up your mascara but honestly _fuck it_, why _not_ be a bigger mess at this point?

Your fists clench at your sides, flexing stiffly. “I look through our insurance files behind your back, because you wouldn’t show them to me otherwise. But you don’t — you don’t name me as anything but someone I’m not anymore. And that…._hurts_ me, Deeply so.” Now your nose is building up in pressure and your jaw tightens. “Perhaps you don’t think of how I am as anything more than a phase I’ll gloss over in a few years, but this _matters_ to me, all of it! And it doesn’t to you!”

“I only call you that in legal circumstances because it matches your official certificate,” Snork argues. “And until we can get it changed, we can’t file for any medical benefits without using your name—”

“That doesn’t _matter!!_” Now you’re actually crying damn it — “My point is you don’t take me seriously and you just think of me as a little kid that still needs her hand held to go to the bathroom, and that hurts my feelings!” You sniffle. “You’re my brother, damn it! You’re supposed to support my decisions without hesitance because they’re my decisions and _my_ body!”

“I do!” He’s yelling now too, more desperate than with any of his normal impatience. “I do respect you! But you have to understand how much I’ve given up for you! As our parents have been out doing _heavens_ knows what, _I’ve_ had to care for you! I’ve given up school and dreams because you needed me—”

“I _do_ need you Snork, but not like that anymore! Just as an equal sibling, or hell, as a friend! You’re not my father and I’m certainly not your daughter—”

“I don’t always know what’s best for you, I admit that! But you _do_ get caught up in the moment and you _do_ need someone to bring you back down every now and then!”

You stomp your foot. “No I _don’t!_ I don’t _want_ you to be that for me!”

“Well that’s unfortunate, because that’s what I’ve been your entire life and until you learn some agency over how dire our situation is — like how I had to lie about my age for _years_ so I could bring food to the table — I don’t think me encouraging you running about and getting caught up in your emotions — which _you do_, don’t give me that look — is going to be healthy for you.”

“You don’t make the _effort_ to understand me! You never have and you never will!” You’re full-on sobbing, clutching at your hair in bits and damning your freshly-painted nails and hairdo as you squeeze and bow your head and scream like a toddler. “You think me growing up and ‘having agency’ is just being a prude like you and sacrificing what makes me happy to support us! It doesn’t have to be this way and yet here you are, trying to mold me into what _you_ want without hearing what _I_ want, as if our parents giving zero interest in us is somehow all my fault and now I need to — sacrifice my _own_ life because _you_ don’t have one!”

“Floren, that’s _enough._”

It’s a fuzzy, distinct kind of hurt that hollows your chest and stuffs up your eardrums; like a blurred photograph or a dream, where the specifics are unclear, and yet it yawns open something deep and dark and heavy that has your mind racing to catch up with this new anchor in your heart.

He didn’t mean to say it, or even that you misheard, is your first method of defense. But when you look at Snork again and he sees your expression he looks awash with guilt, your sorrow pouring into his and his hands cusp his mouth, like he’s said a terrible wretched thing — which he has.

“I…” His voice is muted through his hands but still so panicked and uncoordinated, so unlike himself. “I’m…I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t…I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out, I just wanted you to-”

Your features open up to this vivid pain that makes your lips crimple up and you zip them shut before a pathetic sob is wrenched from them. You’re holding yourself now, far too distracted to even consider tugging at your hair or anymore.

Your brother and yourself are both wide-eyed in different natures, blanched against the silence that follows and you hear the show you’d been watching echoing through the hallway from the living room. It’s a foreign thought to ever return to watching it — or doing anything ever again, really.

You spin your heel and rush upstairs.

“Snorkmaiden, wait!”

Whatever excuse he has you don’t want to hear it. He’s already admitted what you’ve been fearing for a very long time now: that he considers all of you nothing but temperate and fleeting. Nothing concrete, nothing worthy of hearing out. That’s what everyone thinks of you.

Well. There’s one person, and it gives you some concept of where you wish to head next. You can’t stay here is your only thought; you can’t from flee everything like Moomin, but you can certainly do the next best thing and get out of this house.

When you and Moomin were still dating and messing about with your respective curfews to meet, you’d scurry out of your window from the second floor with ease, given that your bedroom window is right beneath the generator and it provides easy landing, so long as your shoes don’t make too loud a bang on impact. You’d meet him at his home and stargaze and wish for better things.

Now you don’t care about making noise because for once in your damned life you’re going to be as loud as possible.

Snork is still calling for you, chasing after you, but you’ve already locked your door and jumped down and fled into the cold, starless night.

-

“Wow,” is all Alicia says. “Your brother can be a real jackass.”

Of course you’ve retreated to your girlfriend’s home no matter what ungodly hour it is — you’re mostly just relieved to be unscathed when you bother to recall that you sprinted here in the dark exposed and unarmed. She was more than gracious to let you in upon seeing your condition: makeup smearing down your face from tears and sweat, out of breath but unable to speak anyways. She brought you in for a hug and put tea on the stove and you took a shower as she prepared for whatever impromptu post-breakdown date idea she had in store.

It’s awful to be left alone with your body right after the argument, but it’s more unattractive to sulk about with your unwashed face; the most you can do is just wash in the dark and hope your foreknowledge on the bathroom’s layout will suffice. 

It sucks. It all really, really sucks to not be able to shed this awful skin as easily as it would be to wash away your makeup when it becomes too gritty. But it clings to you still, like something sticky and gross you can’t peel, and the fact of the matter is you seem to be the only one that hasn’t seen any improvements. Your hands are still big and your feet are all gross and it’s all very unladylike. If your feelings are all transitory as claimed you wish this discontent would vanish just the same as all your other odd phases.

Alicia’s grandmother overhears the fuss and it’s weird to hear her ask if you need anything, considering her cold and isolated nature, but you decline and just elect to change into pajamas and call it a night — you hadn’t the time to grab any spare clothes so you’re lucky you spend a lot of time over at Alicia’s place, and how often she’ll steal your outdated shirts. So you have enough to work with, apparel-wise.

You sit and tell Alicia all about the fight in vivid detail, and after she makes some scathing remarks about your brother it all wells up and feels like a sore bruise being poked at, and you’re crying again.

“I…” You try to make words as you sniffle and Alicia hands off some tissues from her nightstand. “I always figured he didn’t think any of this was real, no matter how I tried to convince him. It’s…if I didn’t have you or Moomin’s folks to support me I’d be in a much worse-off state.”

Your girlfriend pats your shoulder and it stays there, opting to smooth circles into the skin with her finger. “Well, I’m glad to hear that at least,” she murmurs. “But I’m still concerned about the state you’re in now.”

You take a moment to blow your stuffed nose, then stare across the way at the wall: it’s plastered with dried flowers that gives the dull dark-green wallpaper a pop of needed color. “I want to be a girl,” you finally admit, tone distant but still heavy. “I’ve always wanted to be a girl, no matter what. Even if I didn’t understand what I felt at the time it was something heavy and noticeable I had to carry around, and when I could finally identify _why_ I was feeling this way a lot of things started to make sense.”

With Alicia detaching her hand, you flop back onto her bed and have your wet hair spill in all directions. At least being at this angle makes it easier not to sob.

“I probably brought a lot of this onto myself,” you sigh. “People underestimating me, I mean. Because I wanted to fit into that role so badly I felt like I had to squish myself into something smaller, since women are supposed to be all quiet and submissive. If that makes sense.”

“Perhaps,” Alicia says quietly. “I can understand to an extent: when I learned about my attraction to girls it was something of the same, where I felt like I had to prove something or be something to qualify, I guess. But at the same time, I’ve always felt encouraged by Grandmother or you, and our neighbors might be a little sketchy but they at least accept me and my hobbies. 

“But what _you’re_ describing,” she continues as she lays back beside you, propping up an elbow so she can gaze down at you, “is the desire to fit in out of self-preservation, not just for acceptance.”

You heave a sigh and dully glare at her. “Am I that transparent?”

“To me it is,” Alicia shrugs, somber. “You’re all feisty and opinionated and yet when I see you in public I notice you holding your tongue. And I know you believe that being a woman equals being quiet and tender, but Snorkmaiden, you’re not quiet and you _are_ a woman, whether you believe it or not.” She giggles a little, her eyes soft. “If you were the type to be subservient I’d never have taken such a strong liking to you. You have thoughts and you should feel free to share them regardless of how others may see you.”

It feels like she’s simultaneously pulled your shirt off in public and also given you a tender bout of affections, and it leaves you all blustered in a way you can’t pinpoint. You feel your cheeks flushed as you turn away and cross your arms. “Okay, _rude_ first off. Secondly, that’s…something Moomin’s mother told me earlier today, actually. About being valid in every emotion on the spectrum I feel, so…huh, I don’t know. It’s just weird to hear it from different people at different intervals.”

“Well,” Alicia replies, matter-of-fact, “maybe it’s because this is something you need to hear.”

“Perhaps.”

“And if Snork comes over to ask if he may speak to you, I’m more than happy to throw pepper in his eyes and stomp on his foot until you’re ready to see him.”

“I know,” you smile; even if the continual acts of violence your girlfriend threatens onto your loved ones _should_ be cause for concern, it’s not, because you haven’t been offered this level of care or protection in a long time, and again you’re one to indulge.

“Snorkmaiden.” Her tone grows firm, and it causes you to glance over; her features are so sharp along her delicate, rounded face it’s unnerving, in a sense. “It’s alright to feel upset over everything. That’s normal. But it’s also good to take charge over how you feel, and do whatever you can without feeling like you’re overstepping or unworthy to tackle things.”

“I…” your mouth warbles. “I know you’re probably right, but…”

“If people aren’t willing to accept you for all that you are, that’s their problem and they’re missing out.” She then leans down to press her forehead into the crook of her neck, commencing a mild sort of love to sprout through your heart at the gesture. Still she continues, “I just want you to know that people love you for _you_ and not because of some…” she gestures to the air, “weird, outdated-ish stereotype of some dainty housewife that demands people should only like you if you’re nice.”

You wrap an arm around her middle and stare at the unmoving, indifferent tapestry.

“I suppose that’s why I went for Moomin all those years ago,” you hum, and are thankful when Alicia doesn’t stiffen up about the topic. “Because it was expected of me and all — if I wished to be a real girl like I was saying I was, it felt natural to date a boy I’ve known for years and sorta seal the deal about it.”

“That makes sense,” she nods against your throat. “If a boy and a girl have been friends since elementary school it’s expected that those feelings turn to lust one way or another, no if’s or but’s about it.”

“Exactly.”

It’s quiet for a bit longer, but the turmoil formerly screaming all along your body has muted into a tolerable whine, at most. But for now you don’t want to think about anything, just let whatever you’re feeling come and go as it pleases with no promise of permanency. It helps to be grounded by Alicia’s weight against your side, or else you’d have started reaching for your hair again, or pulling on your piercings until they tore.

“Snorkmaiden?”

“Yes?”

“You can stay as long as you’d like.”

You think about Mamma’s promise of similar nature, also from earlier, and it’s hard not to betray how much this all makes you want to curl into a ball and wail. More out of all the gratuity you don’t know what to do with than feeling like you’re so not worth anyone’s time or space — and that’s, good.

Alicia gets up only so she can work on your makeshift bed some more, consisting of stray pillows and blankets and right beside her own bed; you’d have shared hers as is the usual but you’d like to be by yourself for tonight, as the intimacy just feels a smidge squandering.

“Oh, I forgot to ask,” she says over her shoulder as she fluffs up a pillow. “Are you ready to dye your hair again? I bought another color at the store that we can try, it’s something of a bright amber!”

You giggle. “I doubt changing up my hair will do anything but make me more uncomfortable right now, but thank you anyways.”

“Of course, I figured so,” there’s an equal amount of laughter in her tone. “But I always feel the need to ask, just in case.”

You prop a hand on your palm and make a noise of soft consideration. “Maybe soon.”

“As long as you’re doing it for yourself!” she chides. “Not anybody else.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you, solicitous partner.”

This time she does giggle alongside you; although her back is turned you know her nose crinkles a little when she laughs, and it’s very cute to envision it here. She really is something wonderful.

When the lights are turned off after everyone has gotten into bed and the hot tea has all been chugged down, you’re left with your fingers knitted atop your breast and frowning. The incense drifting through the cracked doorframe is enticing and does threaten to pull you under — but your body is the one exhausted and your brain, often the one mediating, is not.

It takes a while to store everything you’re experienced away neatly into compartments to sort out later: your anger still lingers as does your vexation with Moomin, your anguish from Snork’s hurtful words are brighter than ever, your love and fascination for your girlfriend lays untouched, and as well are your unnamed sentiments upon learning about Pappa’s true past. Your internal disgust on all things physical still resides but that’s a given. It’s all just a lot to reflect on.

But morning will come with a clean slate, as it always does.

Eventually you are lulled into sleep by the house’s hypnotic scents and the chamomile tea’s aftereffects; although having no dreams is a surprising outcome, it’s not unwelcomed.


	3. split this yearning open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alt: in which bad people do bad things and also good things feat. Angry Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter includes lots and lots of violence n blood, as well as some good ol homophobic assholes (feat. one contextual slur)

"We don't have to do this today," Alicia repeats, hedging towards concern. "I know you haven't been wanting to go out, and I don't want to be pushing you."

You shake your head. "I'm...fine. I needed some fresh air anyway, you're not pushing me to do anything. I _want_ to do this."

You've been staying with Alicia and her grandmother for nearly a week now, with no budding desires to return home and confront Snork. So, the last few days have been mentally debilitating because of this; all the encouragement gained by your girlfriend and secretly-dream-godmother has been thrown to the wind and you've decided to be nothing but miserable regardless. Most days involved sulking with the curtains drawn and lights off, crying for no reason, and not eating enough so Alicia had to intervene and bring in food because you would _not_ get out of bed.

When you get like this, it's hard not to kick yourself for being so rundown and pathetic when you have so many outlets that you really don't have anyone to blame but yourself. But apparently Snork's words were something like a snake bite, and you're still sucking out its poison from underneath your skin.

But the silver lining _had_ to be date night; it commonly falls on a Thursday night anyway so the restaurants wouldn't be so busy — you've been working yourself up to wearing nice girly things again and damn it all, you're _going_ to have people bask in your presence whether they want to be or not.

So, you try to look nice in spite of how you truly feel: although your pink dye is fading like crazy and there's a zit right beneath your lower lip, you try not to focus on that as you put on makeup and weave your hair into a tolerable bun — although Mamma is much more talented in that field you try to mimic what she would've done. You put on your piercings and squeeze your locket beneath your fingers as you sigh, put on a nice plaid dress with tights, and feign confidence enough so you won't shrink under anyone's gaze.

Besides, outside of you being a hot mess that really needs a night out, it's nice to see your girlfriend all dressed up for the occasion too. She doesn't go to great lengths with caring about her appearance — at the most some light mascara — and her outfit is only a simple black dress, but she's still gorgeous. You like indulging in how beautiful she is without her getting all embarrassed about it, since you want to show her off _all the time._ Dinner dates means you can keep staring at her and she doesn't laugh you off awkwardly when you do.

Alicia sighs and lowers her shoulders, reaching for her own set of large pentagram earrings and toying with them. "I'm sorry we couldn't go someplace nicer," she says with an apologetic smile. "These new customers are poor tippers, so I can only live off of the discounts I receive as an employee."

"Oh, that's fine," you reply. "I don't mind it at all — you know I don't care where we go."

"Yes you do."

Red-handed, you laugh. "Alright, alright. I won't lie and say splurging on more romantic getaways _isn't_ a priority of mine. But still." You reach across the table for two and encase her hand in yours. "It's not the end of the world, and I appreciate you wanting to get me out of the house."

Although she still seems unconvinced, Alicia squeezes your hands and gives you a soft look and it's super hard not to kiss her all over, but it'd make a scene and the last thing you want to do is rile up the attention of any onlookers.

Apparently Alicia wasn't lying when she said the bar's main inhabitants is mostly strange men, talking loud and laughing harshly and just overall just having a cruel sort of impression. When you look over and make eye contact with one of them, there's an odd taste in the back of your mouth. Even though you have every right to eat here, it feels more and more like you're intruding on something you shouldn't, reserved only for the lowliest of humans.

"Is something the matter?" Alicia asks — you must have been staring around for too long and it takes you a second to mentally return to the table. You shake your head, slightly flustered.

"Ah, sorry. I'm okay."

She frowns again. "May, we can leave if you want to just have an indoor date night. I mentioned before that a lot of these newcomers are...off. So I don't blame you for feeling weird around them."

"No, I...well," you gesture around, vaguely enough so it shouldn't garner any direct notice. "I'm just thinking, is all. It's hard not to wonder where all these people have come from."

You almost add 'or why they're here', but Mamma and Pappa's history strikes you, and you have to wonder if the affects of their secret lives were so dastardly it attracted this crowd _years_ after the fact. It's like tossing a pill about in your mouth and having it dissolve on your tongue, leaving you with a bitter aftertaste you can't wash out.

"They are creepy," Alicia agrees. "But they haven't done anything dire, outside of flirting with me. They just fight amongst themselves and I'm okay with that, so long as they pay their checks."

"I suppose..."

It's glaringly obvious that you're still unsettled, because Alicia quickly changes the subject. "I brought something for you."

This catches your attention; you give her a look of surprise with no restraint on affection. "Oh, really?"

"I know we promised not to worry about gift-giving tonight," she reprimands, meanwhile reaching down for her purse dangling from her chair, "but I've been working on this for a while, and by the looks of things you need it now more than ever."

You blink, scrunching your brows. "That's a bit ominous, Al."

She just giggles. "As was my intention!" Then her voice softens as she adds, "Seriously, I think you should let yourself be spoiled after such a long month — but just as a warning, this gift may require some backstory."

"Okay, then?"

"Close your eyes and hold out your hands, please."

You do, and secretly you're very charmed at all this effort for a mere present. It's hard to bite your lip and only carry a tiny smile rather than a full grin. "Alright, dazzle me," you tease.

Alicia shuffles through her bag a second before she presumably finds what she's been looking for; you feel the bumps of her knuckles settle into your open palms, then she spreads open her hands to plot down a cold, smooth object in the center of them, withdrawing slowly.

"Okay, open them."

When you do, you look down at the sudden spot of pink in your hands and realize that you're holding some type of gemstone. It's small and thin, but still carries weight to it; you bring it closer for proper inspection.

Alicia gives you time to marvel at the gift in all its glory: expertly wrapped in a gold wire with thread hanging from the pendent, and now you see that the chain is long enough to showcase this is a necklace.

"Oh, Alicia," you say, astonished, "it's beautiful."

Your girlfriend's smile makes you all fluttery again; your praise has an outpour of much-needed elation to spill out, and suddenly everything lousy about this setting is brightened. Alicia's eyes are soft and sober when she points out, "It's a rose quartz. It's a good stone for opening up the heart to self-love and healing. It's a love crystal, essentially."

"Aw, Al..."

"I hadn't made the necklace to replace Moomin's locket, if that's what you're wondering."

You gaze back up at her, inquisitive.

"I don't know if I'll ever like your friend," she continues, with a hint of reproach. "But if you want me to trust you on this, then I will. You've decided that Moomin is still worthy of being your friend, so the least I can do is respect that decision."

"Alicia..."

"You don't have to wear one or the other, I won't be mad if you ultimately continue wearing the locket. It's your gift, after all."

You reach out to clasp her hand again, smiling warmly. Tinges of tears are quick to blur your version, because your love feels more vivid than it's been in a long time. "Thank you, Al," you murmur. "I love it. I'll wear both all the time for the rest of my life."

She gives a hesitant grin in return, which quickly tides into a bigger one that shows her teeth. "Do you want me to help you put it on?"

"Oh, that's alright, let me get it." True to word you swiftly clasp the chain around your neck, and it falls right above the locket so neither overlap: both can coexist, thankfully. In your fashionista opinion it's a bit of an excessive display, so it might need some proper adjusting so one might become a choker, or maybe you ride the locket up some so the pendant is the one that falls to your chest. But on the other hand, if you're going to be theatrical and fantastic then this might as well be no exception. What harm does wearing two mismatched necklaces do, anyhow?

Alicia admires the pendant's placement with her chin resting on her entwined fingers. Her eyes are proudly gleaming. "It looks nice."

"Doesn't it?" You give a little turn of your shoulder from your seat, pantomiming something of a model's posture and eliciting a laugh from your girlfriend. "You know, if you made me some matching earrings, it'd really tie the whole ensemble together."

"Is that you asking me for another gift?"

"Truly I can't be that obvious."

Alicia makes a little face, teasingly and sticking her tongue out. "Well, I'll think about it. But I expect something in return."

"Would a kiss suffice?"

"In _this_ economy?"

You both laugh, and you notice that the remaining bits of tension within the atmosphere has dissolved, the more you've been talking. Calling attention to this shift does make you do another once-over, just to see what's going on right under your nose: just seems like people are arguing admist each other, still.

When you reach for your necklaces, you twist both of them in your palm uneasily. You look back to Alicia, who's opened her mouth to form yet another inquiry on what's bothering you.

"I don't feel safe among these folk," you admit, keeping your voice low.

She considers this, giving the room a gander as you'd just done, but she still maintains a calm manner throughout. "Maybe it's just because I'm used to these people coming in for a drink, but if you're really that uncomfortable I promise they're harmless."

"Still."

"Still, they're weird, you're right," she nods. "My offer to leave is still on the table."

"Hmm, well—"

A large crash from behind leaves you both scrambling to your feet; when you snap your head around you see that the noise you just heard was a wine glass being smashed into some poor man's face. Since you were fairly distant from the encounter, you're fortunate not to have overheard the crack of the impact, but the way the others around you seem to wince implies that it was a sickening noise to bear witness to.

"Um." You and Alicia have simultaneously backed away from your seats, exchanging startled glances. It feels like something formerly under wraps has been exposed to public eye, leaving everyone temporarily incapacitated. 

This doesn't appear to last long, when more men start coming out of the woodwork to bash objects or fists into each other's bodies, and the whole world erupts into noise and swinging fits.

You've known for a long time that this town was doused in gasoline, and all it needed was a single match to ignite its underlying atrocities — but now that moment has come and still it catches you like an ambush. Something is flung in your direction and although it's small you duck down like it actually hit you, with your arms flying overhead to cover yourself. Alicia joins you on her knees, and you both seek shelter underneath a stray table. Overhead the chaos continues undisturbed, and Alicia rolls her eyes.

"Wonderful," she mutters. "The one night I didn't want them to start a ruckus and now they're trashing the place like uncivilized apes. Who do they think has to clean all this up?"

You're afraid you can't share the same level of annoyance; you're too frantic searching for an escape route, despite the limited vision you have from underneath this tablecloth. Right as you peek out a man falls onto his back in front of you, and you let out a scream before falling back again.

"What on earth should we do??" All this nonsensical yelling almost has your question lost in the crowd.

Alicia's gaze is already hardlocked in thought, bringing a finger to her lips. She proposes, "There's a backdoor in the kitchen that we can probably take without gaining too much attention, so long as we keep low."

That's a better plan to have than no plan at all. You grab her hand again, this time unceasing in your grip as you get to your feet and get up from under the table. That one moment to breathe wasn't enough, given that stepping back into the coliseum of angry men toppling over each other catches you offguard like a deer in headlights. It's all so out of left field that your mind strains to travel elsewhere.

Again something is cast your way, but this time a splinter of glass is flung too close to Alicia and she winces as a slice of glass nips her cheek. It's not anything too gory, but droplets of blood become present when she presses on the wound, face scrunched in sudden pain.

Although you _are_ concerned, it's best to just keep moving until you reach the bar, where a coworker of Alicia's sees you and waves you behind her work area. Whether the men have the outdated mindset that ladies shouldn't be involved in conflict, or just that they're so invested in pummeling each other you're hardly a blip in their radar, you slip underneath the bar without confrontation.

As you make to thank the girl, a loud pop reverberates through the room and even the boldest of fighters scramble out of sight with panicked curses. Someone's brought out a gun.

Your thoughts are running rampid as you grab your girlfriend and yank you both to the floor, laying as low as possible. The tiles are gruesome against your ribcage, given how quickly you threw yourself onto the unforgiving ground.

The shots continue and you hear more people screaming that the perpetrator in question _stop_, which is interesting — if these people are from the Mafia, maybe there's a line that's crossed if guns are brought indoors, but of course you wouldn't know.

You realize you're crushing Alicia into your chest when she slaps your arm, and you release her with a stammered, "Sorry!"

Alicia picks herself off of you in a rush, gasping for air with eyes wider than dinner plates — she still stays close to the ground and is just as freaked out as anyone else, with a gun now present. She fiddles with the many bracelets decorating her wrists in a similar fashion that you pick your accessories, like an anxious tic.

"Al?" you press.

She doesn't respond, only flinches when another loud noise blasts from the other side of the bar; you can't even tell if it was a gunshot or not because of how every sound melds into the next.

"Alicia." This time you shake her shoulders. "We're close to the kitchen, we should get up and go soon."

"I..." She returns to earth with a heaving breath. "Okay. Okay. You're right. Let's move."

"I'll phone the police," the coworker opts, having taken shelter next to Alicia, and reaches for a telephone located right beneath the counter. 

Feeling a surge of adrenaline, you opt to ride this wave of newfound energy and make a straight beeline towards the awaiting kitchen doors —

When a duo of men punching each other brutally tumble through the swaying doors, disappearing in a blur of shouts and nonsensical violence. Ultimately blocking your escape route, lest you want to risk encountering them in the back.

You and Alicia both witnessed the display and an equal distribution of frustration hits you, showcased with Alicia's glare mirroring yours and a loud sigh, clearly exasperated.

"Gracious, things _really_ could not be more difficult right now," she snaps, digging her fingers further into her bracelets.

A lightbulb flashes over your head, but you aren't sure if even _you_ approve of this plan, seemingly concocted out of thin air. You look at Alicia firmly, catching her by surprise when you reach for her shoulder.

"I'm going to go back there," you declare. "I can't risk you getting hurt, just stay put until I get them to—"

As expected, she abruptly protests, "Absolutely not! Snorkmaiden, who on earth do you think I am, letting you encounter those men by yourself?? We don't know _what_ sort of weapons they might have on them!"

"I know, but it's worse to just sit here and wait for somebody to come back here and find us." You tighten your grip, desperately. "I _know_ this is a risky idea, but—"

"May, no. _No_ way," she glares you down this time, but it only highlights the glint of reproach she's withholding in her gaze. "What exactly do you plan to do, chastise them until they all collectively leave?!"

"Not _all_ of them, just those two."

"No. I _can't_ let you do that." Her hand reaches up to your own where you're still holding her, squeezing like a vice. "Snorkmaiden, it's too dangerous. You don't know what they're like, or if they'll even _listen_ to you!"

"Alicia," you say. "I know the risks I'm taking, but we need to get out of here first and foremost. And if those bastards hadn't put a wrench in our plans, I wouldn't even consider doing this. But we can't just sit here and wait for an opportunity to come to us — if you got hurt because of my indecisiveness I wouldn't be able to stand it."

"May—"

"I won't let them walk all over us like this anymore. So please," you sigh, your voice dropping and the hick tiredness lurking beneath it is brought to light, as you look at your girlfriend rather sadly. "Please, let me try to do this. I'll be as careful as I can, I promise you."

Her hand on yours drops to her lap, albeit slowly, but it's enough to give you the final verdict long before she squeezes her eyes shut, tossing and turning about it before she stiffly nods.

"Okay," she murmurs. It's a bit hard to hear her over the noise you're very gradually growing accustomed to, so she repeats louder, "Okay, I trust you. Just...come back safe, please."

You nod. "I will. I'll come back to get you."

"Wait!" The coworker calls to you, reaching her hand behind the counter to pull out a nearly-empty, tall bottle carrying some type of alcohol. She ferries it over to you and you tentatively accept the offer. She explains, "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

Understanding her implications, you thank her rigidly as you get to your feet, whilst keeping your head low enough so it doesn't peek over the bar.

"May."

You peer back down to Alicia. "Yes?"

She shoots up to give you the quickest peck on the cheek, cradling your face a second before she lets you go for sure, though there's still hesitance in her fingers when they draw back slower, dragging along your chin before they fall to her lap again.

"I love you," she murmurs.

You say, "I love you too," clutching the bottle in one hand before you sprint to the doors.

-

As if this whole charade wasn't dangerous enough, you find the goons battling it out right next to the fryers. They're bound to get burned should they continue, so you try to stay parallel to their brawl. There aren't many people that work at this place anyway — hence Alicia's hellish hours — so the kitchen has already cleared out, unsurprisingly, and you see no stray cooks huddling in corners. You're truly alone now.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, but it's all so out of body it's nearly dissociating you from everything entirely. It's hard to pinpoint what you're feeling and if you think too hard it's harder to pinpoint _why_ you're doing _any_ of this. You think it's the same sort of foolhardy process you had in that alleyway a week back.

A phantom version of yourself, somehow, steps forward, and you give a brief cough to announce your arrival. This comically has them stop and glare over at you, who's quickly descending back to her little corner of the wall with a bottle poorly-concealed behind her back.

Oh, of _course_ you recognize their faces _now_; the faces that were once cast in shadows within the alley are now fully-visible in the fluorescent light. And they look...normal. No sort of weird scars to misshapen their mugs, nothing to really showcase a brutal past — they're just normal, middle-aged men staring you down like the patronizing assholes they are. Which is, again, normal for men like them.

The alleged 'leader' of the duo staring you down like that has dampened any semblance of confidence you dared to feign. The other man he's holding over some heated stoves also gawks over at you, recognizing you as well. He's dropped unceremoniously to the floor and he grunts at the impact, and the leader cruelly barrels a boot into the backside of his partner-slash-opponent, twisting a heel into his spine so he wouldn't be able to escape. You wince.

"Can I help you with something, sweetheart?" His voice is still grating on the ears and slimy as ever, but it's obvious that he's angered by your presence no matter how smugly he carries himself.

"I..."

You don't know why you opened your mouth, you had nothing to say for what you're doing. You just wanted to leave unscathed — and if not you then your girlfriend at least. That was why you're back here in the first place, isn't it?

A smirk crawls onto his lips the more he bores into your stuttering form; your hand is tugging at your nose ring again and he seems to recognize it as a symptom of your apprehension. 

"What's behind your back there?" he asks, but he clearly knows what's behind your back based on his tone. When you can't answer he just tutts lightly. "We've been over this, haven't we, sweetheart? You need to stop putting your nose where it doesn't belong, lest you just want to rile up the wrong guy."

"I..." you repeat, like a broken record. You melt into the cold wall more. "I need you to leave."

He just gives a mean laugh, which withers your posture more. Apparently you're the funniest thing he's seen all day.

"Is that so?" he drawls, dripping with mockery. "And why, pray tell, should we?"

You swallow. It feels like his stare is burning into every orifice it can reach, tattooed onto the ugliest reaches and gnawing you from the inside out. Getting belittled by a man purportedly twice your age is further demeaning. 

You look between your heels when you manage, "You're destroying my girlfriend's business. I won't let that happen."

"Oh, your _girlfriend's_ business. I see." His tone makes you cringe even more, feeling naked under his clear taunting. "I didn't think you to be that type, but I guess we all have our kinks every now and again."

This time you do barrel a glare right at him, momentarily taking him by surprise. Your back leaves the wall. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" you snap.

He regains posture long enough to answer, "Look, the point is: I've said before, you're only going to get into more trouble the longer you keep playing the hero in a men's sport. You're bound to get yourself in a whole lot more trouble than us ruining your _girlfriend's_ business."

He's about to say something you really won't like, you can just feel it.

"So how about you let us have our fun in this crummy town—"

_Don't say it._

"—while you and your other dyke friends just run off and play dolls or something?"

He said it.

A flash of white-hot fury is enough to jumpstart your body and everything you've been barricading — the anger about the injustice of it all, the desire to _act_ instead of sitting pretty and doing _nothing_ — overwhelms your senses as you walk up to him

and lift the bottle and

slam it into the side of his face, with an explosion of glass spraying across your face and onto the floor as your opponent stumbles back in shock.

You've probably opened up a whole new can of worms, but for the briefest of seconds it's all worth it just to see the look on his face.

Then he lunges forward and makes to grab your hair, and luckily your body is thinking before your brain catches on because you yank yourself out of his way. Although you immediately trip on your own heels and fall atop the man still lying on the floor — which you're almost grateful for if he didn't ruin it by springing up and grabbing you into a chokehold.

Your main opponent has already regained balance, wiping off the streaks of blood from his scratches gained from your attack. He's not amused anymore, that's for sure, but the new problem is that he's extremely angry.

You try to get up and face him, but your floor buddy is dragging you back down due to his overbearing pressure on your neck. But you manage and soon compensate by being able to push back and squish him against _some_thing behind you, knocking the breath out of him and loosening his hold enough so you can wrestle out of his grip.

Just in time for a crack of knuckles to be blasted into your nose — heat rushes up to your head faster than the succeeding sting that floods up your vision, momentarily incapacitating you as you reel away with hands covering your face, choking on a cry.

He doesn't stop there — he sees you weakened and soon your hair is being fiercely tugged and all your nerves spring up into the back of your neck. He pulls you backward and again you're punched, this time right under the eye which has your upper cheekbones _screaming_.

_Everything_ hurts and your mind is speeding up a mile a minute, feeling the blood spill from your nostrils the makings of a bruise puckering up near your right eye. Your half-smashed bottle has long been dropped as you use both hands to push away your attacker; you're probably screaming, but like in the dining room this is all much too loud to really know _what_ you're doing.

And then two figures are standing over where you've hunched into a fetal position, where you've scrambled as far away as you can go — when you look up their expressions are stony, lacking anything other than despise.

"You really should have left the fighting up to the men, sweetheart," the man says icily.

Your toe reaches the bottle still on the floor, rolling it over to where you can reach for it. Before they know what you're up to you're already on your feet and screeching as you pounce forward, swinging into his chest with the jagged end of your weapon.

Stabbing someone is easier than you'd presumed, is something you _really_ wish you weren't realizing as you pull the ends of the bottle out of his torso — it didn't sink that far in but still, gross. Human beings really are just delicate, meaty things no matter what they identify as. _Super_ gross, and also the blood from both you and the man has totally ruined your date night dress.

You step back and swing again, this time more of a blind defense mechanism, before you remember there's two men and that the second half of the team has circled you from behind to try and restrain you, again. And then he's pulling you back, _again._ And he reaches for the front of your face.

And you move much too slowly, so his fingers pulling into whatever crevice he can find winds up locking around your nose ring, of all things.

Something is roaring about your chest long before you feel the first tear strike up into your head, and you're foolish and swaddled in the instinct of getting out that _you're_ the one to pull in the opposite direction. And then a brutal sound deafens your eardrums that only you can hear, a sound of splintering muscle that races up your nerves like molten heat, blinding everything but a very real _hurt_.

You hear the tinkling of your ring fall to the kitchen floor. You feel the absurd amount of blood pooling from your nostrils.

...There's no time to think anymore. If you reflect on this loss you'll never stop.

With bottle still in hand you swing around and bash your captor smack in the head, and due to him already being injured he falls limp. Then you whip around and watch a stream of red splatter the counters from your harsh movements. You're becoming very dizzy.

And you grab the man with a fistful of his hair and loom his head straight over the boiling fryers, keeping a heel straight on the back of his calves so he wouldn't be able to flail out of your hold. He's already dumbfounded by whatever your face looks like now, staring up with more helplessness than you've ever witnessed in a grown man.

You bend down and snarl, "_You and your friends better get the hell out of my town._"

And you drop him like a sack of potatoes and he doesn't get back up, likely due to the puddle of blood his chest is gaining from your strike.

Everything is roaring in your ears as you stagger about, panting hard as your vision refuses to hold focus. You feel like the entire front of your face is on fire from the hit, and also tearing up your nostrils so terribly that the entire front of your dress is so gory, you think you look like an extra in a horror movie.

The doors swing open. "Snorkmaiden!"

Alicia is there, breathing just as hard as you but for different reasons. In her hands is something akin to your own bottle, but it has something white and limp hanging out of it. In her other hands she carries a lighter.

A Molotov cocktail, it seems.

"We need to go," she's saying but it's barely heard over the chaos that spills out from the dining room. It carries an orange hue of light that you hadn't remembered being there before.

"Alicia."

"No. Stop talking. Let's go, _now_," she runs forward like she _knows_ that your upper body is losing strength, and there's no way your legs can withstand all the weight you're dropping onto them. You fall forward clumsily, feeling more specks of pain as your face is crushed by your girlfriend's frantic hold.

Everything must be okay, then. Whatever Alicia decided to do to save herself, nobody else comes after you when you eventually come outside, and the fresh air no longer smells like gasoline. Still all tastes like copper, though.

she's dragging you at this point, and you do feel a bit bad for the trouble, but at the same time you're so tired. And it's...okay, right? To stop and recollect? You're already heading somewhere safe, presumably. It _has_ to be safe now.

Alicia is saying something.

But you're just so, so tired.

-

Fuzzy rushes back into her eldest son's room with haste, before the silence between you and Alicia freezes over; in her fumbing hands she carries a medical kit and pops it open on the nightstand, her eyes heavier than you've ever seen seem. She walks over with a cloth doused in alcohol, dabbing it onto your wounds even when you intially shy away from the contact with a hiss. She gently advises that you hold still.

The longer you've sat with these wounds, the more demanding they've become — your face hurts with even the slightest twitch of muscle, and the alcohol added to the mix everything stings so badly your senses are all clotted up with cotton, defensively. Your nose is obviously the worst off, swaddled in bandages and cloth plugging up your nostrils in hopes to lot up blood, to see if the blood will stop at all or if the wound will need stitches. Which you don't even want to _think_ about.

Alicia hasn't spoken at all since she dragged you to Sniff's place, since both of your houses were too far away to make with your condition being so fickle. She hasn't released your hand, but there's a mandatory nature behind it, lacking anything concrete. Her hair obscures her face so you can't pinpoint what exactly she's processing.

When Fuzzy finally steps back after cleaning your cuts, she perks your chin up slightly to inspect your nose again. She tries and fails to give a reassuring sort of smile, and leaves it all at that before departing without another word. She walks past her son without acknowledging he's even there — whom is lingering outside the doorframe as though awaiting permission to enter.

Sniff looks uneasy but eventually walks in after his mother, managing, "Um...you look...bad."

It hurts to scoff but it's a small price to pay. "Thank you, Sniff."

"Oh! N-no, I meant...well, I overheard what had happened, and..." He wrings his hands together and looks away. "That sounds like...what you did was...really cool."

You blink. Your bad eye throbs when you do.

"I wish I were there!" he continues. "I didn't know you could beat up bad guys like that — it must've been impressive to watch!"

Neither you nor Alicia can respond to him, but Sniff doesn't appear bothered by this, as he often isn't. Instead he looks closely at your main injury with a wince. "Oh, you've lost your nose ring. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you lie.

"You could always get another one," he assures you. "I mean...I'm not sure you'll be able to get a nose ring like that again, but you could always get a cool stud like those girls in your magazines! Or one of those tongue piercings but I imagine it'd be uncomfortable for you to eat that way, although I'm sure you'd get used to it. Or you could get those big earrings that stretch out your earlobes—"

"Sniff," Alicia suddenly intercepts. "I'm really thirsty. Do you think you could bring me some water from the kitchen, please?"

"Oh! Uh, of course! Be right back!" Immediately your friend shuts up and barrels out of the bedroom with a new task at hand.

Obviously Alicia had sent him away purposefully, but neither of you attempt to take to first step of communication, even with this limited amount of time. Eventually her inertia is much more unbearable than whatever she might say in return.

"You're mad at me," you say, at the expense of it sounding wrong in your ears. Also your face still hurts like hell when you speak.

"I'm not mad," she responds, but her tone is blank. "I was just worried."

"Okay..."

Shame is still roiling about you that's deeper and worse than any wound sustained.

Alicia finally loosens up with a great sigh, diffident when she lowers her head to meet your shoulder. "I'm just happy you're alright."

'Alright' being a relative term, but she knows that and you know that. Your fingers dance along the quartz necklace, lily-soft as the tips meet the cold stone. You stop when you feel your girlfriend finally return in squeezing your hand.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" she asks worriedly.

"I was," you admit. "But the medicine Fuzzy gave me has numbed a lot of my face so now I just feel tetchy in some areas. And I _hate_ breathing out of my mouth because it makes my throat feel all weird, and when I tip my head I feel all the blood just going down my throat, which tastes disgusting. Plus my dress is ruined and I don't know _when_ I'll be able to take it to the cleaner's this week, and my nails are all chipped so they look like I've been chewing them—"

You stop when you realize you're rambling, and Alicia's frown starts twitching. You make to apologize for all your complaints before another knock in front of you is heard. You presume it to be Fuzzy with more supplies, so you're not expecting the person that you see standing there instead. Your first cognitive thought you can translate is, _Oh no,_ which isn't promising.

Snork stalls right outside the room, flitting his gaze between you and Alicia and looking clearly hesitant to be there. Obviously he's concerned, but also rather misplaced, as though he knows he's intruded on something you hadn't wanted him to see at all.

Your girlfriend glares at him with daggers for eyes, since you're too tired to perform that action yourself. Still, he asks you directly if you can talk alone.

Although your brother is the _last_ person you want to be seeing right now, he's still your brother. Even though he's probably going to spew out one of his many lectures beginning with 'I told you so', and another fight is likely to break out with you straining your jaw from yelling over him — you whisper to Alicia, "I'll be fine."

She glances over. "Are you sure?"

You nod. "I've avoided this long enough. I might as well get it done."

Still hesitant, Alicia stands and opts to stretch a little before saying, "Well, then I guess I'm off to find where my glass of water has gone." She passes by Snork as she leaves, sizing him up with a very dirty glare thrown over her shoulder, before promptly departing with her heels sharply clicking. Your brother tries to act like this doesn't have him looking more and more restless.

"I..." He looks down and brings a hand to his collar, adjusting it so it doesn't hug his neck. He makes to perhaps join you on the bed but thinks better of it, hanging by the door instead, and you both shuffle in place on opposite sides of the room. The quiet is much more deafening than the one you'd shared with Alicia.

"I suppose you're here to tell me off for being so careless," you mutter, looking at the nightstand rather than Snork.

He doesn't answer for a moment. "Fuzzy called me and briefed me on what happened. I needed to make sure you were okay."

"And now you know." Your tone sharpens. "So now you can leave."

"I won't leave," And he sighs, adjusting his glasses. "I have something I need to say to you."

"You've said plenty already. I don't need another lecture about how petty you think I am, Snork. Honestly whatever you have to say to me is the _last_ thing I want to hear—"

"I want to apologize to you."

You pause. His formality holds firm, but you catch the exhaustion lurking beneath, with his tapping legs and fiddling with the hinges of his frames — obviously your anxious tics are genetic, but he always keeps his own twitches under wraps.

"Everything I said that night," he explains, opaque, "It...it was wrong of me, to say that all of your phases have been invalid. For so long, I...I always saw you as the little kid our parents dropped into my arms and expected me to care for. I've never known what I was doing with you. And that's not your fault, I shouldn't have _made_ that out to be your fault — I don't want you to be who I want you to be." He tries to weakly chuckle, but it won't match his solemn expression. "Snorkmaiden, if anyone were to mold you into what they wanted, you'd throw a rightful fit about it. That was a sign I should have noticed, too — that you felt trapped with me, or that you were always disappointing me."

His words are sharp and bright, but not painful. Still your vision is hazy. "Snork, I—"

"You've always been my sister, Snorkmaiden." And this time he fully looks at you, for the first time in a very long time. "But I haven't always been your brother. And...I want to change that. I don't know how I can fix what I've done, but I want to try. You're worth that much."

You can't stand it. Sores be damned you jump off the bed and rush to embrace him, shunning away every screech from your body just so you can hold your brother tight battling the throe of tears that will just make your sinuses so much worse.

It's a minute before Snork hugs you back, awkwardly patting your shoulder before fully wrapping his arms around your frame; you're tall for a girl but your brother is taller, so he comfortably rests his chin atop your head.

"You big sap, you," you murmur thickly, voice muffled by his shirt. You pull away before you get any more emotional. But for good measure you feebly punch at his arm despite your torn knuckles. "When did you learn to be all sentimental?"

Snork rubs the area you hit him, a little offended when he answers, "Excuse me, I _have_ been your caretaker for a while now. I can guess I picked this up from you."

"I'll consider that complimentary," you grin a little. "Now you know your little sister _is_ right about most things, and also a great teacher. So you're welcome."

"So it would seem." He's sincere when he says this, which is strange to hear but not unpleasant. Even if Snork is poor with showcasing how he feels, you can tell he means it by the way his face softens a hair. Though he immediately dips back into unease when he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," you reply, leaving him more stricken at your honesty. "My dress is ruined and my ring is torn out of my nostrils. But I doubt any of them will be coming back anytime soon, so I guess it's an okay loss."

He cocks a brow. "Um, 'they'?"

"Oh, I'll tell you all about it later. I'm much too tired to complain any more or I'll start focusing on all the snot and gore dripping down my throat, which is disgusting and the more I think about it the more I want to vomit."

Again he winces, but you don't apologize for being blunt. Instead you wait for him to fill the gap of conversation as he sees fit — which he eventually does, awkwardly gesturing with an eyeroll over to the hallway behind him.

"You have more than me for company," Snork says. "And I'm sure they'd all like to know how you're doing, if you're ready to go downstairs."

"Hmm." Your feet do the talking, deciding for your entire body that it's best to head back to the bed. "I think I'll rest for a few more minutes, actually. I'm sure they can wait."

"They can," Snork agrees — actually _agreeing_ with you, and not just to please you or something. These changes have you double-taking, especially now that your older, wiser brother is now lending weight to your words. It will take some adjusting.

"I'll be in the living room with the others, if you need me," he finally declares. "Can I get you anything?"

"Honestly, I just want a lot of sweets — remember when our aunt brought us those homemade crepes? And those macaroons? I'd like some of those, if you can call her and ask her to bring some over. Also my perfume is about to expire, so I'd like more please. And lemonade, strawberry lemonade."

Your brother just laughs. "I can bring you water and maybe some sort of hard candy from the kitchen."

"That works just fine."

With an easier atmosphere now bestowed, your brother leaves and you listen to his evened steps become distant. When neither he nor Alicia return for a while, you're truly left to bask in the gravity of what's been done. But they're not heavy burdens to consider — if anything, with you splayed across Fuddler's old bed with your head raised up to clear your nose a little, you feel ten times lighter.

-

When you gain the audacity to tread downstairs, there are more people waiting than you'd expected. It seems your fight was really dire, because Mamma rushes over from where she's sitting on the couch, sweeping you into a frantic hug.

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright," she sighs, and you melt into her embrace. She sounds so relieved so you must have really troubled her, and that makes you feel a little bad, but at the same time...she ventured out of her home just to see you.

Pappa stands as well, but moves slower than his wife due to the support of his cane. Alicia and Sniff are over at the table, the former knowingly smiling when she catches your eye. Maybe your longing for parental affection really shows.

Snork coughs, dispatching the moment so you both separate with Mamma's hands still locking you in as she inspects the damage to your face.

"My poor dearest," she murmurs sadly. "Fuzzy had mentioned you might stitches...but no matter." She touches your cheek in a ghostly manner so you can't feel her hand in the slightest. "I'll wait until the blood stops to see how deep the wound is, and I'll bandage it however necessary."

"Thank you, Mamma."

The smile reaches her eyes a little this time. Again it's ruined when Snork intervenes, "Snorkmaiden."

You turn to him, making to be annoyed, before you see a police officer has joined his side; he must have been here for a while because no one's startled by his presence. His face is gruff, but not barbarous — Mr. Hemulen once mentioned a relative working on the force and you reflect on their facial comparisons, and decide this is indeed the relative in question.

You make for a lukewarm greeting, but he merely halts you with a raised hand. "Your friends have already explained the situation to me. You're not in any trouble, miss."

Honestly that was the last thing on your mind, but it's still good to hear.

He continues: "The altercation should have been dispatched prior to the fire. I want to extend my apologies — we should have been there sooner so you wouldn't have been so badly hurt."

You attempt to shrug the apology off. "Well, I understand the strain. And I wouldn't have wanted to stand by and watch them do that."

"Exactly." His impish tone carries an implication you don't understand, having you tilt your head at him. He explains, "As you've probably noticed, all these newcomers have stretched our force thinner than normal. I'll be upfront: we wanted to know if you'd help us patrol the neighborhoods to help keep the valley safe."

...It's a loaded question. It's a _big_ question, actually. Which requires a really big answer. You're slack-jawed, with your weight shifting from one foot to the other; you can't even tug at your piercing anymore.

Appearing to have forebode this sort of reaction, the officer continues, "I know it's a lot to be asking so soon after the fact, but we need someone like you, miss. I'd be glad to hire you as a sort of field intern or something of that nature, and give you a spin to see if you even like the position. If you don't, well, we'll ask nothing else of it — we can't exactly force you into the job."

"So, like..." Finally your mouth has decided to catch up with your brain, "a guard, almost? For the town?"

"More or less," he answers. "Your strength is admirable of course, but it's really your wits that we're after. The foresight you carry in tough pinches and all. You've quite the mind, miss Snorkmaiden."

You pointedly look overhead to your brother when you say, "I guess I learned from the best, sir."

"May," Alicia interrupts, where you find she's gathered beside Moomin's parents; further back Sniff and Fuzzy overlook the scene, both dubious yet intrigued. "This is...a big thing." She's choosing her words carefully. "This valley has only gotten much more dangerous, and it's going to get worse if more people stroll in."

...You consider it, you really do. A very small but very real part of you wants to flee to your bedroom and shut all the windows and doors, and pretend like you have been that none of this is as serious as you're making it out to be. For once, it's very tempting to stand back and let someone else do all the heavy work.

But who would do it? Moomin? Even if he was here, he'd hide behind your back and expect _you_ to do it. There's no one here eagerly wanting the job themselves — and this is your _home_. If something were to happen because you and others were scared to fight for it, there'd be a much more regrettable outcome than tearing your nose open.

"So we stop folks from coming in," you say — and this causes your girlfriend to blink and many other confused expressions to run through the group. "They know we're easy targets because we've let ourselves become dormant. And most won't call the police because they're afraid of getting in trouble too.

"Besides, we do need people on the frontlines so these folk will stop flooding in and start pouring out. I'm not saying _I'm_ 100% qualified for this kind of duty...but I can't stop and wait for something else to happen. We _need_ to do something ourselves."

Your words sink in for a long, long moment.

"So...like a sort of neighborhood watch?" Sniff speaks up — unlike the others, he appears genuinely excited at the concept.

The officer's eyes light up. "That's actually the best term for this idea, so yes! That's exactly what we're hoping to assemble here." He looks at you again, where you've unceremoniously ended your speech and now taken to biting at your nails, like you're an anxious teenager again. "So, what do you think, miss? Would you like to help us lead a neighborhood patrol?"

You take too long to concoct an answer or _any_thing, actually. You're now officially burnt out from everything that's occurred within this past twenty-four hours, and it must be apparent because there's no further interrogation on what you're thinking. You hear whispers misted throughout the room, solemn in tone.

Snork walks to you first, dragging the hand you're chewing on out of your mouth and holding it. Again you reflect on being smaller, when he runs a thumb along your index knuckle as he did when you barely came up to his waist.

"If you can't do this, it's fine," he says.

"Snork—"

"But I believe you can," he finishes, before you have a chance to get angry. "I _know_ you can. And we'll all be here to support you, no matter what you decide."

You stare at him like he's just grown two heads, which he only patiently smiles at.

"He's right, you know," Alicia pitches in. She doesn't budge from her seat but her tender look is enough. "It's a big responsibility, but we all know that whatever you put your mind to, you can do it. You always loved a challenge, after all." She winks at the last part, and it makes you feel a _little_ better.

Still. "I don't...I don't know. This is very sudden. I'm certain my answer will be 'yes', but..."

"I'll give you time to consider your options," the officer bows his head lightly, respectively. "Let's have you recover for a bit first, naturally. But if you have any questions, let us know."

"I do, actually," you say suddenly. The gears in your head are now greased and turning and whirling up a storm. The dots are slowly connecting, slowly, but still surely. And your eyes go to Snork.

"I was wondering," you continue, "if you've considered upgrading your security. Although we're short on guards, perhaps we just need to garner the right...equipment. Someone who's mastered that field and can perhaps use technology to our advantage here."

Snork looks like he's no clue why you've decided to stare him down like this, but when the puzzle pieces in his brain merge together his eyes widen in a bit of a comical matter from behind his specs. "Snorkmaiden—"

"You're smart, Snork," you ignore him. "I've seen your basement inventions and I _know_ from your experience as a technician that you can do marvelous things. You have a talent."

"Yes, but I'm so rusty!" he protests, but doesn't so defensive so much as trying to talk himself out of it. He pinches his nose again, the way he becomes animated when an idea is sprouting. "I haven't the time to think of anything creative in years, and the most I've done is change tires! I'm not cut out for that sort of life."

The room's population feels to have been decreased to just you and your brother. You squeeze his fingers not in the way that you might with your girlfriend, because there's such force behind it that it makes his fingertips go purple.

"I'm not a kid anymore," you tell him. "There's no need for you to keep denying yourself happiness just to provide for us. We're better off than we were and we'll _keep_ getting better, if you just allow both of us room to pursue our passions."

He's overwhelmed, playing with his red spectacles so harshly that you're worried they'll chafe the skin. His eyes are fiercely downcast, lucid with every thought pummeling into his mind at once, like it usually does. You almost digress, and say that he too can take as much time as he needs to process what you're asking — the declaration that you're not a kid anymore and shouldn't see Snork as anything but ten years older than you is probably a big thing to him.

And then, remarkably, he straightens up. "I don't know what exactly I can offer, but I will help my sister however she needs," he tells the officer. "If you'll have me."

"...Well, I did say we'll need as many as we can get," the officer replies carefully. "But...I would like to hear about these 'inventions' she mentioned. Perhaps they'll be of use to us, somehow."

His free hand falls back to his side, and you release his other so he can knit them together at his middle. "Erm...I guess I can show you some blueprints — I did have some old ideas of a security system for our shop, but it was too expensive to really conjure up..."

"I'd like to hear all about it," the officer repeats earnestly. And your brother's face reddens in a way that makes you laugh.

When he glares at you like an embarrassed child, you give him a sort of half-shrug like _you're on your own,_, and make your way back over to where Mamma sits, where she wraps an arm around you to pull you close. And you watch your brother flail about trying to orchestrate his proposals to the interested Hemulen relative, feeling a strange wave of content from it all.

-

The mantle that Fuzzy keeps her pictures on calls to you, likely because you're left alone and waiting for a very late dinner to be made in the kitchen, and everyone has dispersed into miniature groups around the house. Most of the pictures feature you and Moomin alongside Sniff and his brother, even though the age range between you and Sniff was more vast than now. You wince at a lot of the ones encapsulating your teen years mostly because Teen You's hair was a pea-green and it did _not_ go with your outfits at all. Partly because now you can see that you often forced a smiley persona for the cameras, and you and Moomin were always holding hands or doing something similar that it just feels so coerced to look back on it. You wonder if you've always been so transparent.

Before you can further cringe at your teen self, you hear Pappa's cane tapping against the woodboards long before you actually turn to encounter him. Although, instead of giving some bold rendition of the pictures you're looking at from _his_ perspective, he merely hobbles his way over to a nearby window and is looking out onto the darkened street.

It's weird to see him so isolated and not boasting about anything in particular — if he wasn't with his wife he'd surely be bugging Alicia and Sniff, wherever they've gone. To see him so quiet is so unnerving that you put back the frame you're holding and walk over to gaze outside with him.

"Mamma told me everything, you know," you find yourself saying.

He just nods without budging. "Yes, so she said."

It's weird not to have him elaborating; you both watch the streetlight on the opposite end of the road flicker on.

"Do you regret anything you've done?" you finally ask.

Pappa exhales slowly, scratching his mustache in thought. "That is the question of the hour, isn't it?"

"Well, that's why I asked."

He then chuckles. "My dear, I know you expect me to say that I've lived an entire life of regrets. But I can't say that I have — I've a lovely wife and son that I'd never gotten without my actions. And although dangerous, a life of thrill was what I desired the most: the pumping of blood and the joy of a good chase!"

You frown. "But...I can't imagine that would be very much fun. Wouldn't you have to...I don't know, kill people?"

Pappa hums considerately. "I know that it's hard to understand, but I'm happy with my life now and whatever's been done has been done. My past is a narrative that you can interpret however you wish." He doesn't answer your question, you notice, but his amber eyes are nothing but kind when he finally flits them to you. "Snorkmaiden, you're a very bright girl. You have a promising future full of adventure! If I were to tell you everything I did, I feel that it'd only weigh you down."

"I guess so," you admit slowly. "But still, it doesn't change what you did — whatever you did."

He's quiet for a minute. "We can't predict whether or not our tales become legends or cautionary ones, my dear. But we still decide to live in them."

Whatever you have to say next, it's silenced by Pappa's grin that bends his wrinkles. "Well, best be off to assist my wife with dinner! Even with Fuzzy, she'll want me to help instead — that poor woman always overcooks anything she makes, even the water!"

He leaves you with more questions than this night has already left you with, but you didn't miss how his flamboyant guise didn't match his heavy eyes — which he and his wife have in common nowadays. You don't go after him, and let that sleeping dog lie until you dare bring it up again. Outside the starlight is struggling to wink into view from the streetlights. Today has dipped into mellow blues and purples as twilight plunges the world into quiet for just a moment.

Perhaps tomorrow won't be kinder, but there's also the slim chance that it will be. For now you just appreciate that you don't hear any fights or gunshots no matter how badly you strain your ears against the glass.

When Alicia calls out for you to join her and Sniff in watching some movies, you snugly close the curtains.

-

From experience, it's best that you wait several days before the big sitdown at Alicia's place, where you finally decide on not one, but two colors to dye your hair with. Since the pink is hardly there now, overlapping any colors shouldn't be an issue.

It took a while to find the right time, since your new hours at the station plus the hours at work to cover your future surgery (and medical expenses because apparently the nose thing was _that_ bad) really didn't mesh well with Alicia's schedule. The fire at the bar also put a dent in her plans, of course.

But now you're cozied up on her floor with a trashy magazine, surrounded by a billion old towels because her grandmother demanded that not a drop of dye be found on her carpet. From behind, Alicia takes the brush and tentatively applies to the blue you'd chosen for the right half of your hair — although you were worried that the blue on blonde would make the color green, it seems to be holding up strong.

You spend the lazy afternoon giving your hair a fine gradient of blue on one end and amber on the left. When you wash, dry, and consider options for a hairstyle, you end up with two simple braids that separate the two colors. From the mirror, you watch Alicia knock before hesitantly coming in, her reflection eagerly awaiting for your verdict.

"Well?" she presses. "How does it look?"

To say the least, it's different. You've never gone for something so bold before.

But seeing the change, it's refreshing. You can't stop looking at it; you watch your mirror self grow a smile that gets wider by the second.

"I love it."


End file.
